


Starcrossing and other Bullshits don't Exist

by WitheredMantra



Series: Starcrossed Lovers (Hilariously, they're in space) [1]
Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Xeno, child torture too, crew is a tsundere, enjoy?? i hope hdhs, mentions of torture, mitsuki tries to be a nice bab, okay um so, smut at some point too, spork is gross, the old tallest spork and miyuki are alive and still in command here, this is an idea ive been having for a while. making a fanfiction out of my irken ocs, those two are old as balls and i kept having strands of musing to write down so, zen is tired as balls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-18 11:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitheredMantra/pseuds/WitheredMantra
Summary: Zenith is a brilliant, quick-witted royal scientist, subjugulated by the Tallest and disgusted with his job. Crew is an ex-Elite and a prisoner left to wither away for crimes his parental figures committed.Zenith craves freedom. Crew does, too. This is the only thing they have in common. That, and a billion death threats hanging over their heads.





	1. I -- Rockambolesque

_''Good morning, Subject 22.097! Open your eyes, it's time to be productive! Another gooood day of work!''_

He heard that voice many times by now. Morning after morning, sundown after sundown, eerily sweet and persuasive. It prodded him to get off bed, when all he ever wanted instead was sink into the stiff mattress as he slowly withered away into nothingness. Instead, he found himself sitting upwards, shaking the sleep off his head carefully. 

The action of placing himself on his feet made his head spin: it had been some time since he ate something more than a cup of coffee and a fruit. And the effort of putting a foot in front of another, slipped in comfortably modeled knee-high boots, was picked up by the interactive voice as him finally abiding to the daily routine. 

_''List of things to do in this woooonderful morning!_  
_a) Brush your teeth!_  
_b) Fix your antennae to look tidy and nice!_  
_c) Wear clothes! No naked equipe in our ship, no-no!_  
_d) Exit the room and head to **WO~RK!''**_

The high-pitched screeching pierced right through his right antenna, making his upper lip show sharp incisors in an hiss before he could get ahold of himself -- the loud whristling making it vibrate violently and twitch before it rested on his back again. That goddamned alarm, he was sure, got set at an hair-splitting uncomfortable volume just to startle him. He wouldn't have been surprised, rather resigned.

Carefully, he drew an had back to touch the base of his antennae. It would have been more pleasant if the right one worked, too. Short and chapped, and a few centimeters shorter than the ''good'' one he had. It hadn't worked in a long, long while now -- decades, to split hair. Eternities, from what it felt like for him.

It felt like he lived just one life, and a billion ones at once. His bones and mind felt like that most of the times, yet all he saw were the same faces of his colleagues, vaguely greeting him each morning. The transparent glass keeping up a barrier between him and the (most of the time) dangerous experiments pulsing behind it, ghostily glowering in his eyes.

The same glass, shielding him and the tattooed, hunched forward Tallest grunting in pleasure near him, from blood, tissues and brain splattering mere inches from his face. The impassible mask he had to keep up in order for the inquirent, hard gaze of his leader not to split him apart like a peanut -- and the permanent exhaustion he experienced after those top secret experiments. Writing on the floating monitor in front of him, at least, partially masked what was going on with a blur. But he couldn't write for too long, less he was barked to not lose any of the intertaining bits of it. Incoherency at its best...

And it didn't even paid well. If you considered the currency, not the safe-ish space, roof and food they gave on the main ship of the Armada.

Heavy footsteps trailed to the bathroom -- a minimal space with a small bathub, a floating sink that could have been attached to the wall ( _but what was the point?_ ), and nothing else than a small, blue colored box above said sink, which had little personal effects inside ( _there was nothing personal here anyway, not to him_ ), and he made his way with an hunched, long back.

His underbags were growing, he aknowledge with scarce interest. A soft sigh flew past his lips to hit the mirror, which sprung up with bright LED, technologic lights, throwing shades and glimmer on his cheekbones. Green, pale skin stretched on them and on a slender face frame, and light violet eyes glimmered even if circled by purple and black. But then again, he fit right in with the others -- all long-faced, scrawny and workaholic to the bone. Midol. ( _Whatever that was. He was tired enough to think, let alone argue with himself this early in the morning for silly terms..._ )

He inhaled, his hands pinching the bridge between his eyes, before his claws wrapped around the toothbrush. A mechanical hand immediately squeezed a salty, gel-like paste on it. It tingled against his gums, but he didn't opposed much to it, while the interactive interface glowered their approval at his actions, even going as far as to cheer him for each stroke ( _Ridiculous._ ) until he spat the foam out. From the ceiling, arms dropped with his purple uniform -- a violet turtleneck, black slender trousers and his boots, which he had to begrudgingly slip off in order to dress himself. The little drone still cheered.

''One day,'' he spoke, low and quiet -- perfectly reasonable, ''I am going to dismantle you.''

_''No you won't! Tee-hee!''_

For the stubbed toe of one of the Tallest... yes, he was going to. He just needed an excuse, anything at all, and then he could have that been taken care of, such as a bug, or a glitch in the system... he could hack into it, disabilitate something just for the sake of it. He felt rebellious for a single second. Maybe...

The loud emergency alarm blared in his antennae, making him yelp in surprise, before nullified gravity sent him off his feet and to crash in the nearby wall.

**SUBJECT NUMBER 7756-K OUT OF HIS CELL. CALLING FOR GUARDS. LEVEL OF THREAT: SEVEN POINT THREE. KILL ON SIGHT IF NEEDED.**

Saying that he was expecting it would have been a lie: emergencies like this rarely happened on the mothership. If anything, rigidly protocol-based simulations with the guards poking their weapons at their back and urging them forward into the containment area, where bodies were uncomfortably pressed against his as they all squished together inside a capsule of what he supposed to be indestructible glass.

But anything was destructible with enough force, or enough stubborness. And he forced himself to stand up from the wall he just flied into, attacking himself to the nearest appendix ( _the open bathroom door, thanks to the Tallest_ ) until gravity returned to normal. He never saw the mothership use the anti-gravity, unless it was to throw someone off-guard and not allow them an easy escape route...

Ah, of course. Now he understood.

Whoever escaped, be silently cheered for them to reach the escape pods safely -- and travel to another planet, perhaps spreading damage and mayhem all over the place while doing so. Messing up the unbearably tidy walls, even lives, despite himself being a tidy, overly-so person.

Old fantasies of an old, terribly plain scientist with a knack for sudden excitement. He sighed, wobbling back on his feet to go and check on the door. If he was correct, and of course he was, the door would have been closed in just a few minutes, to prevent anyone from breaking in -- or for anyone to get out. It was a double-edged idea the upper floors had, and it didn't really made him feel safe.

Trying to ignore the alarm still blaring, he marched towards the closing entrance to test his theory.

There was someone at his door.


	2. II -- Concealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He spent his entire life in a cell. For very good reasons, until...

Cold.

Very, very cold. Terribly so. Every fiber of him was shaking in shock, deep green blood dripping down his back as he desperately tried to hold the remains of his suit together. Apart from his heavy breathing, punctuated with broken whimpers, he wasn't saying a word. 

''Hey, did you ripped off his tongue...? He isn't talkative as usual. What is it, not biting back anymore?''

Giant, deep orange globes fixated itself on the one who spoke, an Irken with a metallic armor around his legs and torso to protect himself. It was a long, emotionless stare that made the other backtrack for a few steps.

Another one scoffed. ''He might just be tired. We haven't given him food for a few days, didn't we?''

His stomach rumbled. That was true. He hadn't seen anything come to his cell, not even the rancid meals he regulary got force fed, having them shoved down his throat because he refused to eat at some point.

This wasn't life. This had never been life. He barely remembered his infancy, let alone the past few days... without a doubt, his brain had been damaged from the 'accident' he always got told he had been saved from... only to feel helpless until the Tallest took care of him. Ironically, he never saw his parents anymore after this -- and the ultimate revelation was a few years ago, when a cruel joke was played to him for laughters.

If he recalled correctly, it was in the latest edition of the Blood Sports -- the classical, overviewed show where everyone murdered eachother, shedding blood for fun and for the prize at the end: a wish. Anything would have been granted, anything Irken-ly possible at all... All he had to do was survive and kill for a month. And he got signed up partially against his will. Partially, because he was barely over the human age of fifteen, but it was a wet dream for many of the other lads he was around at the Academy -- the only place he was allowed to attend. And to add insult to injury, for a short while.

All he remembered was shredding his way out of that in-turn massacre with a laser gun he stole, antennae vibrating in both terror and adrenaline until he dug the sharp claws of his foot into the open guts of the last one standing before his sensitive earing was blared with a mechanical, shrieking that he WON! and dropping a bunch of confettis on him, that stuck to the bloody suit. 

Of course he remembered it.

[ _**''CONGRATULATIONS, SUBJECT 7756-K! YOU WON THE BLOOD SPORTS!!!''**_

_It burned. It made his antennae tingle, his bones shake in fear from the sudden overstimulation, and the energy he fatigued to gather through the month he had to struggle to survive... but he won. Orange orbs stared up at the drone waiting to input his victory wish... and he just had to speak, did he?_

_''I... I would really like to know what happened to my parents? I--I want to meet them! I really do!''_

_The drone grew bigger, coming to pick him up from that no man's land, connecting to his PAK to give him a shutdown shock to make the transportation more pleasant._

_But when he awoke, he found himself at the Tallest's feet._

_He jerked awake, opened his mouth in disbelief to the sudden cruelty of this whole ordeal. He stroked his eyes, tried to play it off as a dream -- only for the harsh reality -- the other's metallic hand -- to smack him right across the face. The rightful winner had disappointment and fear written all over his bruised face, making the tattooed face of the other scrunch up in a laugh._

_''Why...? But I won! You can't keep me there anymore! I WON!''_

_He screamed his last word, tears welling up in his eyes -- which only seemed to amuse the Tallest further. The slender figure tapped at his forehead, smirking from cheekbone to cheekbone, and then Spork spoke._

_''Of course you did, did you? A great match you showed us, ay. That much I will say. I'm the one who has to grant your wish -- so be it.'' A pause, as if he enjoyed torturing the small Irkenian crumpled on the floor. ''Your parents were thrown off into deep space, sweetheart. They were rebels -- and rebels get executed. Considering the circumstances of their betrayed, I'd even say that I've been sickeningly nice. Don't you think, hm?''_

_He couldn't respond, frozen in shock and disbelief -- and for the sudden presence of a gloved hand on his shoulder, pulling him up to half pull half push his way back into the cell he belonged to._ ]

He stopped eating after that. They had to shove nutritional mixes down his throat, force him to stop biting by letting his teeth break a few times over the metallic gauntlet the guards had -- and whip him whenever he screamed insults at them. And soon enough, after the big guys learned that as long as he was alive they would have gotten away with it, began to use him as a targer pratice for thermo knives and stun guns. Maybe that was why his memory was a big empty spot until a few years ago. Or denial. Or both, he wouldn't have doubted himself that much.

''Um... guys? Guys?! Did you locked the cell in? This isn't funny...!''

When he snapped back to his senses, out of those memories, he could see the sight of one of the smallest Irkens having been left behind, and closed in his cell as a cruel joke from his friends. It wasn't of much interest for him... except that, in possible panic, he dropped the thermo knife mere feets away from him. 

His eyes darted on the abandoned weapon. Then, a few seconds later, to the guard's back, watching him desperately tug at the ancient bars. If he remembered correctly, their current technology was left for the upper floors of the Mothership... certantly, they wouldn't bother to update some cells for a bunch of crumbled dust and dying prisoners.

Wouldn't they?

A smirk slowly found it's way across his face. The prisoner 7756-K slowly rose from his fetal position, finding the handle of the white weapon fitting perfectly in his palm and letting blood drip and dry freely from his back and onto the ground. The sounds were amplificated, but all he could see was the back this guy so unconsciously turned at him.

He didn't thought of a sound more pleasing than the choked one the guard emitted as the knife sliced their throat, slow and meticulous, like a surgeon operating a patient.

Was there a button to activate the heat source? Of course there was. Subject 7756-K clicked the big red circle, only for the blade to buzz alive and slowly whirr, turn red and wait for its new owner to use it. Easier done than said, and he wasn't going to waste words with the dying alien on the floor, here. The scalding heat was enough to cut the metal bars, marveling him on how easy it was to escape until now... So he ripped off the gauntlet attached to the corpse's arm, squeezing it back to life and hoping that having it scanned was enough to escape unnoticed.

Of course this wasn't the case. As soon as he stepped out of the cell, an alarm began to blare across the higher planes, and his instinct kicked in immediately.

Fight or _flight_.

And his boots glided across the dirty floor, for some good meters, until he could find an air conduct. His legs were weak, but his mind wasn't -- and the jump to grab onto the grate was easier than he thought. His energy was enough to crumple the little metal bars, and he climbed into the ventilated conduct with ease, thankful for his short height.

All he could hear in his mind was dead calm. He could feel the mechanical piece in his hand buzz with the alert sign, and while he knew how to make them work, he had no time. Working with his knees and elbows, desperately climbing up with his claws, he made his way towards the nearest light he could muster himself to -- and crashed the gate open with his shoulder, falling on the hard ground and in the middle of a group of scientists.

There was chaos.

His head bursted with the panicked shieks and Irken words from the small pack, their claws hitting the keys of their hovering headboards in distress to alert the upper floors -- and what did he do to trigger all this? Nothing. He was getting up, being ran around by too many people.

He experienced another bout of absolute calmness. He was still holding the gauntlet in both of his hands now. 

And all he had to do to make the ruckus stop was to tap a few inputs in it, setting the already known **SELF-DESTRUCT** option -- dropping it on the floor and calmly walk out of the automatized door those idiots didn't bothered to shut down.

The second it closed behind his back, the muffled sound of devastation and screams ceased to make his antennae tingle. It made him inhale a breath of air, before he began to run again. Towards what...? Towards safety? Death? More violence? Spork, to maybe end both of their lives at once?

No, not quite. He barely had time to screech to an halt before a door was swiftly opened -- and an offensively tall Irken poked his head out of the door.

And while he couldn't really focus, he couldn't help but notice the dead calm set in his eyes. The slow way he appointed them on him, right in his orbs and didn't looked away. There was something dark swimming in the back of his scleras, and puzzled curiosity directed at him. For how casual the other had looked at him, they could have exchanged an handshake right there in the middle of the corridor and began chatting, despite the hysteric situation.

When a bubbling, crazed laughter erupted from the prisoner's chapped, thin lips, the others gaze became sharper. He wasn't analyzing him, but he wasn't going to ignore him either.

Now he was looking right through him, like _he could finally fucking see him_ \-- but he wasn't the type to beg.

''Please,''

No, he wasn't. At all.

''Please -- they will kill me, please, hide! I need to hide!''

He didn't begged, usually -- but his pride was long gone, tears welling up in his eyes as the other stared back at him in disbelief for a few seconds. And suddendly, he began to grow terrified at his display of freedom, his panicked stride having dragged him low enough to spit pleas and cry like an infant.

Then, clawed hands dragged him in the room, the door closing behind them as he closed the distance between them by clinging to his possible savior, a shaking mess looking for closure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love both of my OCs to death, but writing Crew is the most exciting. While Zenith doesn't have a definite past, Crew has. There's so much more to write!


	3. III -- Rogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crew owes his life to a certaint tall, lanky scientist. They both aren't sure what to do.

To say that he was shocked, it would have been a lie. Rather, now he was intrigued with the situation..

In the span of some hours, his usually boring day turned into a chaotic havoc: his back still hurt for the harsh impact with the metallic surface, his antennae tingled and ranged like Christmas bells for the blaring alarm bursting through his skull, almost splitting it into half whenever he tried to ignore it.

_**''WARNING: PRISONER 7756-K HAS NOT YET BEEN FOUND. BEGINNING LOCKDOWN PROCEDURE.''** _

That one usually started with the upper floors, the Tallest's door getting sealed with a spray of scalding air that locked the extremities together thanks to the melting of metal. And if it wasn't enough, a second set of portals slammed shut to protect it. And he was at a particular lower floor, with just the second door to seal his salvation... or to bring in news.

And what news those were...

Much shorter than him, dressed in an harsh, tattered orange uniform with multicolored sleeves, it stood an Irken. Whatever... covered his arms were what he made out from the scraps left to be unique, differently colored patches of cloth, seared together by rough stitches. His shoulder protections were partially torn off, what was left of his black trousers hugging around shaky legs that seemed to barely sustain him -- and his face...

Those giant, lucid hues tore into his soul like nothing else was able to do until now. It ripped it to shreds as they begged him to shield and -- what else? Hide him?

Because... he was the runaway prisoner, right? Subject... 7756-K. From what he knew, he was an ex-Elite that landed on the wrong side of the hierarchy in the Mothership. To get sent into the cellars, he just had to... well, it included a very gorey incounter with a room full of scientists and a plasma gun. It was on one of his free days, luckily...

A threat to the Empire. Someone to diffide of, someone dangerous... Someone he read the files of, and then had those disappear in front of his eyes in a shredder. But he had memorized part of it.

Something snapped into him. Something that didn't quite wanted to pry away their claws from his uniform, and that made his hands firmly sit on the other's shoulder. He swallowed, looking back into those pools of fire as calmly as possible, as he whispered tranquil words to him.

''You're safe with me.''

And just like that, the foreigner seemed to calm down. His hands stopped spasming in urgence around his shirt, his breath finally evened out and his eyes casted down on the floor an incredulous gaze. He could hear him breathe an incredulous laughter under his lips, the edge of a smirk tugging at them. ''Do... do you ever know who the fuck I am?'' was asked, his words losing the threatening tone once they flew past his mouth. ''I--I could kill you right now. Because you let me in, I...''

He sounded weak and crazed. The taller's one hold on his shoulder pulled him back to sanity, his response quiet and calming.

''I know. This is exactly why I told you that you would be safe.''

The protection door sealed shut, making them both jolt for a moment.

And without a word, his hold on him broke -- the room turned colder. The intruder stood there, blinking, watching the other bypass him to look at the shut doors over and outside of his standard sliding one. His head tilted, long antennae following the movement and falling on his shoulder, down his back as he lowered to examine them.

''What... what are you doing?''

The other's voice shook him out from the thorough examination: he turned back to face him, slowly, violet eyes peering at him curiously. ''... I was examining the doors. Seeing how much time we had.''

And how much time did they had? Just how much? ''How much?'', he croaked out, parroting his line of thoughts -- only to be answered with silence. Deafening, insecure silence.

He watched as the other stood up, vaguely shaking his head and turn with a frown. The expression didn't signaled anything good for him, and for the errant prisoner either. Glowing violet met with fire, and he felt desperate enough for an answer, his bones shaking from head to toe.

''... A day. From what I know, the protocol for someone escaping the cells is to lock down the first levels, where the Tallest resides. Then, the entire Mothership gets locked down, to allow little time for the runaway to hide... or do much more than to cower in a corner until they're found.''

Every word sent a deep shiver to quake his already shaking spine and resolution. The scientist could see his eyes growing larger, aghast, filled with primordial fear to be caught -- and killed, possibly, he didn't knew. In deep contrast with it, all that he felt was calmness. He owned the situation -- he could manovrate the possibilities and situations at his favor. It was a twisted, unique opportunity to be laid in his hands... the hands of a scientist. A simple, middle-ranked scientist who had seen and heard everything that he didn't wanted to; splattered blood on a mirror shield, brain cortex opened in the air while the subject whrited in agony -- the foolish dream of the ruthless Tallest to create a perfect Armada, his piercing eyes staring at his soul to sense even the minimum swaying from his part in supporting His Highness.

It was turning numb, or slowly break. Experiencing despair and regret that would ply in half the strongest person, or master the subtle art of emotional shutdown.

... He secretly wondered if they were alike in this. Inquisitive purple hues went to scan the other again, taking in their shallow breathing, and the scars snaking out around his neck, thin like spiderwebs and yet the only thing that ever let him elaborate some sort of response.

Time was taken by both. It was like a quiet showdown, a silent peek through the other's psyche.

The scientist could only be seen in one way: privileged. A long, clean cape -- soft and newly washed clothes, boots and shirt that fit him perfectly. His hands were spotless, his skin pale and smooth, without any scar from a suggested previous mistreatment. Yet, the dark circles under his eyes and his hesitation in delivering him to the authorities was more on the surface than he would have liked to show.

A pause. Too long, too quiet. The ex-Elite was about to scream, until the answer came.

''For as long as I can keep you here.''

His arms fell. His breath evened, he started to shake. His mouth opened and closed with no sounds, tongue threatening to choke him -- he would have swore he heard wrong, that the taller one would have thrown him out at any minute... but he wasn't. And when he was touched again, it was on his naked shoulder -- fingers squeezing the exposed skin gently.

''I will... do my best.''

If it wouldn't have been an already desperate situation, the runaway would have grabbed and kissed him out of pure gratitude. Althrough he swallowed and kept his head low, a deep green blush blossoming on his cheeks at the contact. ... He was never good with contact, even if it was positive. Expecially if he was positive. And suddendly, an hand got in front of him, a smile peering at the corner of the other's thin lips.

''I may have failed to introduce myself properly... but I'm Zenith. A scientist, as you can see. It's... a bizarre and strange pleasure to meet you.''

He swallowed, a thick fog going through his mind when he pronounced his name up so easily -- a confirmed identity, something he strived with a timid pride. He could have shattered the bones in his hands like a madman would have... and instead, the prisoner grabbed it gently, reverentially -- like something made of silk. It was smooth to the touch too.

''I'm... Su-- I'm... I'm Crew.''


	4. IV -- Closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both are horrible at socializing. Crew's concussion doesn't help.

_A peculiar name_. Zenith offered him a small smile before his eyes were drawn to the protective doors locking them in the room. Being trapped there meant no work, no way out -- yet, a fortress to hide Crew in. Nobody coming in or going out meant being imprisoned, but also a protection in case the guards tried to come in. He knew the circuit of them -- and they were programmed not to open before a day.

Some hours of peace. Or, rather for him -- extensive thinking. Problem-solving logic in how to keep this mess down.

The cold inox of the door was what he needed. He leaned his forehead against it, warm skin turning tiepid at the contact while his mind shoot off at incredible speed already, causing him to exhale quietly. 

''Are you alright...?'' got asked to him, and Zenith snapped out of his haze to turn his head back at Crew, slowly, letting his gaze soften a bit. The other was standing still in the same spot, eyes filled with uncertaint and concern. _I should be the one to ask you that_ , the thought traversed his mind for a moment, the tall Irken taking in the appearence of the other. Rather than being properly clothed (not his fault, he was sure...) Crew looked like someone might have found a wonderful idea to throw strips of bare clothing at him as a joke. 

The dark, green skin under blossomed into fresh and old bruises and open cuts over nastily closed ones and a sea of zig-zagged, cringe-worthy scars that could have made anyone else pale and take a step back. Zenith didn't. Instead, he took in the tattered state of his black trousers and how much skin it was on display before he caught himself, and his cheeks tinged of light violet. ''I'm alright,'' he spoke, parting from the door and taking a step closer to the other.

It was at this moment that Zenith noticed the puddle of green blood slowly pooling at Crew's feet.

''W--what the hell are you staring at?!'' The smaller one snapped, an equally wicked blush appearing over his face as he gathered what little clothes he had left to mask his chest and overalls. Too little, considering that Zenith could see him throughoughly. Aside from the mop of scars and cuts and bruises, he was toned. Supple muscles were partially sheltered by clawed hands, an hiss almost forming on his lips as his hand ran over a long, bleeding cut that was dripping down his leg and to the floor. 

''We should get you medicated,'' Zenith calmly said, contrasting with the aggressive tone Crew suddendly sprung up with. And maybe seeing that his tone wasn't predatory or lascive effectively calmed the other down, orange globes dropping to the floor in embarassment for his outburst. A smooth hand is placed on his elbow as he gets steered away by the taller Irken, a smile dancing gently across his lips. ''And a change of clothes, too. You must be... terrifyingly cold.''

''Sorry for bleeding on your floor, uh... Zen.''

That earns him a confused bat of eyelids. ''That's not the part I'm worried about. Are you alright?''

_Yes, duh. Covered in cuts, bleeding more than I can safely regenerate, cold as absolute balls and with a few concussions._ But he doesn't say that loud, so he just nods and the other takes it with a grain of salt.

He's led into Zenith's bed, a few meters away from the door and in a secluded corner of the room; Crew can't help but notice how carefully the sheets have been remade, the almost childish way colorful lights have been hung on the ceiling near the bed and a slight more pleasant smell than the whole freaky-chemical-cleaned room. A towel is fixed neatly under his bottom as he sits onto it, careful not to stain the bed. No need, since the blood is drying up and coaguling, leaving him sticky and cold and hunched over his own legs in an awkward position. 

Zenith is quick to act upon the need of his new guest, precise footsteps trailing over the bathroom section: he clicks open the cabinet and starts dragging bandages, medicines, an astounding amount of little jars and tiny vases filled with pink-ish liquid and green, fuchsia, yellow pills popping into his open palm.

And to be honest, his secure movements are a little enthralling to watch: precise, direct to the point; the cape dances around his legs like a dress, and he can't help but admire the slender digits ending in well-kept claws. It might be not having been in company for over fifteen years -- or it might be because of the light head he's developing thanks to the loss of blood. The scent of clean clothes comes back near him, and Zenith's smooth hands carefully rips the first piece of the bandaging kit to start on his fresh wounds.

He's immensely patient: Crew never emits a single lament, but he stops when his body jerks to him removing what's left of his clothes. The touch is supposed to be cold -- but all Crew can feel is the warmth of Zenith's hands working on his arms, his torso -- handing him a few of those funny yellow pills that gives him some of his strenght back. Soon enough, confused and a little flustered, the smaller Irken finds himself leaning into the other's soft, caring touch with more and more carelessness and craving more of it. His chest is almost completely bandaged, blood stopped flowing leaving only some stains on his back and his legs feels less like jell-o.

It doesn't stop Crew from finding himself leaning against Zenith, though.

A bit dazed, he can't really feel the sudden tremor of the others hands at the contact: for long years, Zenith has been isolated by his own choice. His colleagues boring and too dutiful, a cruel monster who got off seeing others torture as he was forced to document each wrenching line after line. No offsprings, for Irken babies were automatically brought to life through machines. He never considered himself lonely -- not until blocked into a room with an homicidal, conjured maniac who was currently shifting up, and near his face, with his lips parted -- and inching closer. 

For a small moment, he inwardly panicked: he didn't knew what the prisoner wanted from him -- why he was getting this close, and why the situation looked intimate and comfortable. A living being with zero knowledge of what was about to happen was bad... but in retrospect, he imagined that Crew was just as inept as him in that field.

In Zenith's defense, he doesn't know who started it first: he cannot pinpoint the logical trail of thoughts because there is no logic in two mouths softly, tentatively touching and then full on exploring. Both of them are out of pratice, but it's relatively easy with Crew dazed from the medicines and blood loss and some concussions and with Zenith being too surprised and eager to pull back just yet. Tubular tongues touch and swirl together, Crew's claws digging into his clean, white coat and keeping him close, even closer, pricking at the soft skin under the fabric of his uniform. To angle his mouth better and allow him easy access, Zenith's hands cups his cheeks, head tilting, and now he's the one suddendly feeling very dizzy and confused.

In retrospect, Zen thinks that he might have been the one to initiate it.

They part after a few minutes. Minutes that felt like years, with heavy breaths tickling eachother's lips, mesmerized eyes and blush creeping up on their cheeks. Before he knows it, he's parting his lips again with a puzzled question -- then Crew quickly stands up, eyes not quite meeting with violet ones as he clears his throat and licks his lips (oh, _no... oh, no..._ ),flustered as one can be.

''That was, um.... uh. For... for the help.''

Zenith guesses that the involuntary kicked puppy expression on his face is enough to make Crew clear his statement up.

''I mean-- I mean, it was great. Pretty great. Y--you're a great kisser!''

And he books down the bathroom, bolting as fast as he can to hide himself from view.

And the way the blush can't die down from his face tells Zenith that karma is having a chortle at seeing the scene, somewhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, heck temp verbs.


	5. V -- Schadenfreude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenith isn't sure if he really hated Spork up until now. Because now he's sure that he does, and more than anyone else.

It would have been... nice to have some time to avoid eachother. To cool off, allow his concussed head to stop from swimming and swimming and replaying each frame and sensation of just a few hours ago. 

In his defense... Crew experiences barely any kind-ish contacts for the past fifteen years. All that there was in his life was force, electrocution and boots to parts he didn't even knew he had; he experienced aches, force-feeding and nothing kind if not the mercy they had after hours of psychological torture. And usually, giving them his body meant a distraction and them being too exhausted to keep going on him afterwards.

Zenith had been different.

His lips were soft and warm, thin under his chapped ones, and his touch delicate, if a bit startled by the sudden kiss. Even better -- like a perfect gentleman, he explored instead of imposing: he tentatively touched tongues with him, intertwined and didn't forced him to continue when he bolted up and went about the rest of his day trying to scratch the blush off his face in the bathroom. To make this even better, the scientist himself seemed overly-flustered by the whole ordeal, which didn't helped Crew wanting to tease him.

But some things are better left unsaid. His savior or not, there was still the small possibility that Zenith could have betrayed him -- 

And he didn't knew if the prospeth of dragging an innocent to a secure place in one of the torture chambers was satisfying or terrifying. For revenge or guilt.

In any case, he had to find some spare clothes. Left alone, Crew wandered and dug into Zenith's closet and rummaged through infinite, neatly folded violet uniforms and lab coats -- he opted for the latter, closing the buttons over his chest... and sinking comically into it. Really, the damn thing reached past his feet and pooled on the floor, his hands disappearing into the fabric of the sleeves and requiring more than a single folding to get his limbs out safely. 

Then he exited the room, and met up with the _so-thought-about_ scientist.

Seeing Crew wear one of his coat made something coil in his stomach: something warm and unknown, which prompted his cheeks to blush as he struggled to keep himself under control and not let his voice come out yet. It would have been quite flustered, and he had to clear his throat to not crack or stutter.

''I... see that you've made yourself quite comfortable, just in time.''

Crew's long, loose antennae perked up in curiosity. ''Just in time for...?''

''For the doors to open.''

Right... because the doors were still shut with that strange glue-like liquid, and it had been almost a day. None of them had slept, but they tracked the passage of time through their own methods -- and both turned to stare at the metallic sealed off escape, Crew's antennae twitching anxiously.

''So... do I hide? Do I just murder them when they come in? What do I do?''

Zenith, looking remarkably less disturbed than he imagined at the mention of killing, pointed a long digit at the... at a...

''No.''

The taller one couldn't help but snicker behind an hand.

''Absolutely _not_. I ain't doing it. Forget about it. I can just hide in your fuckin' coat.''

A soft laughter erupted from Zenith's chest, uncovering sharp teeth and drawing his face back with the first blossom of wrinkles around his closed eyes. And while the sound drew something painfully warm in his chest and a blush on his cheeks, he drew a dangerous grimace at him.

''I MEAN it. No fucking way, Zen.''

The scientist wiped away some stray tears with his fingers, biting his lip to show the other some respect. Or what was left of it -- the solution didn't titillated him either, but after having sized Crew's height... it was the only thing possible.

''And I mean it, too. They will never check there -- I blocked the inside mechanisms, and you'll be safe here. I cleaned it while you were doing your ablutions.''

For good measure, the escaping prisoner threw another glare at the compact, in-wall built trash bin and then back at the owner of it, who was doing his best to try and look serious. Playful, even. 

But the idea of being lodged right where trash was didn't sit well with him, and Crew jabbed at Zenith's chest with a claw and a scowl.

''You better take me out of it the exact moment those guards step out of the room, or you'll owe me big time.''

... Not quite knowing what, exactly, to owe him, Zenith wordlessly trailed to the bin opening and held it as his new acquaintance crawled into it and held his knees to his chest until he closed it, lowering himself to make eye contact with the glowing, orange orbs a last time.

''I don't think that I got to warn you, Crew... be quiet. As quiet as you can be.''

He received another glare in response, and the motion of biting his tongue off.

Conveniently, a few seconds later, Zenith's head turned at the sound of whirring and the glue-ish substance being slowly melted off.

With studied, praticed calm, Zenith slid a plastic folded under his arm and walked to the center of the room -- a few feet away from the manhandled door. His posture and expression changed, from what Crew could see: his back stiffened, his eyes lidded with an unfamiliar coldness and impatience in them, his tongue ready to click. He was wound up as a springlock ready to snap, and Crew admired the work of a facade he had yet to see in pratice despite the nerves.

When the door was freed enough, two guards made their entrance in the room: with a solid, almost full armor that left their mouths uncovered and an electric spear (and Crew knew those too well,) in their hold. Zenith barely regarded them with a cold gaze, tapping a pen on the plastic to make an irritating _tap-tap-tap_ sound. 

''Ah, at last. I thought I was never going to be able to get to my work station again, I must say.''

The pair looks at eachother, dumbfolded. Surely they were expecting a thanks, or some sort of gratitude after possibly hours of freeing each door manually -- but Zenith is in front of them, annoyed and cold as a block of ice.

''We're sure that you know the procedure, by now...'' One of them starts, hesitant but trying to be empathetic for the wait. Wrong move, judging by the look the scientist shoots them.

''I do, actually. I know the manuality and the pattern of every single guard in this compendum. But, and I trust that you know this bit of information -- I am the right hand of the Tallest Spork. And without a doubt, if he had the need for me, he wouldn't had been able to get ahold of me. Whose fault would have been?''

It's like watching an interesting, vaguely creepy trasformation: nothing of the kind Irken is left, instead making room to an icy personality that looks down on everyone that isn't the maximus authority on this god-forsaken ship.

For a scary moment, Crew almost believes it to be true.

The two guards quiver under cold, deep violet eyes. But one of them pipes up with an irate ''I'll have you know, scientist -- that there was the threat of a dangerous prisoner escaping. We did what we had to do, and we could search your room right about now --''

''-- But there is no need for that, and it would just be a petty gesture that could very well be reported to the upper floors. The doors have been glued until you loons came to free us -- with an almost unforgiving lateness to it, escaped prisoner or not.''

With an eyeroll, he discards them. He turns his back with a sharp motion, the sound of his boots on the cold metallic floor echoing as he makes his way to another room that Crew has yet to see, his voice ripting the atmosphere of the room even more.

''If the other guards have the same tempistics as you two, the prisoner will be already in space, having taken one of the emergency ships -- or hidden in the air vents. May your search be fruitful, if you long to not be replaced.''

Utterly defeated, the two guards drag themselves out of his room while glaring daggers at his slender back as it disappears into another room. Orange globes watch the scene until the familiar sound of the lock holding the door shut cracks the silence, then jumps off his hiding place just as Zenith hurries back into the room. There's another voice cracking just outside the door as it's closing, but he's looking for his companion, to free him from the trash bin --

Their eyes meet, and Crew flies right for his neck.

For a split moment, Zenith is convinced that he's about to be killed. His neck is pliant, and he's sure that Crew's fingers will squeeze and break the soft, obedient bone underneath. And all he feels is acceptance, that he has seen too much -- that he'd like to quit existing, if it was by Crew's hands. He's sure that the prisoner on the run would give him a semi-painless death and dispose of his body, escaping safely. Acceptance, and the slam of his back on the hard surface of a wall --

They're in his bedroom, and Crew is pressing him against the closest wall, just beside the door. His fingers clasping like mallets around his wrists as he tries to fuse both of them with the metal, the door closing behind them. He's shaking, Zenith notes with a pang of worry, and their bodies are pressing flush in Crew's animalistic attempt to protect, shield him. Zenith doesn't know whenever to feel terrified or grateful.

Then he hears Spork's voice, and everything is suddendly logical again.

The sheer terror when he meets his eyes tells him a story that Zenith isn't sure he wants to hear or be part of, but he has to go. Spork isn't a simple guard that you can ignore -- he's dangerously gone too far to have morals. And it's difficult to pry Crew away from him, calm him down with a low voice and force him to stop shuddering like he has just been bombarded with icy water. The way he scutters into the closet tells him another bit of his story, and he makes sure that he's hidden in his clothes properly before he heads out to meet his superior.

''Sir,'' he emotionlessly states, crossing his arms over his chest as the tipical Irkenian salude. Spork drags his gaze over his face and nods approvingly, clicking his tongue. ''At your disposition.''

He's one of the bulkiest Tallest that have been ruling over the Armada. Despite the artificial limbs and the dryed up arms that peek from under the bombed suit, what's left of his force is in his roboant voice and crude manners. Tattoos rake over his face, shapes of artistic figures covering the green of his skin with the perfect black ink of his face. Two bright blue eyes, almost innocent, challenge and stare down everyone they meet. Even Zenith himself, which is being scanned like a printed paper.

''A prisoner escaped,'' Spork spits, upper lip curling in disdain.

''I have heard so, Sir.''

''I expect you to be available, for when we catch him. He's... a special, a long-starring guest, if you wanna have it at that. And as such, he's gonna get a good treatment.''

And this is the final piece that Zenith needed to hear to complete Crew's backstory. He exhales quietly, bows, and Spork seems satisfacted. The Tallest floats away, the door locking behind him.

The moment he's gone, Zenith rushes to nurture his new roommate...

... Which, not surprisingly, makes a straight jump for his neck the moment he cracks the wardrobe open. They ungraciously tumble to the floor, Zenith settling his elbows to take most of the hit and the weight of the other atop of him; Crew's claws are clamped tight around his shirt, and his voice is a broken, cracked sob as he tries to speak. Zen watches him with a spark of panic in his throat as he tries to recompose himself -- barely succeeding, until he closes damp eyes, take a long, deep breath and shudder in revolution. And after that, it's a bit better when he leans into the other and presses his brow into his shoulder, finally toppling them both fully to the ground.

Crew can't help but think that he smells really good. Of clean clothes, a comforting good scent that he buries himself deep to inhale, and tries to stay serious when all Zenith can do is wrap his arms around him for comfort... and for lack of a better option. His world soon fades to the seducing black of sleep, but the other remains wide awake under him.

The floor is endlessly cold, but somehow more comforting than a bed. If it's for the stress or the ripple of hysterical laughters about to erupt from his throat, Zenith doesn't know. Perhaps this is a terrifyingly vivid dream, and he will wake up to follow his routine again soon.

He closes his eyes, and when he reopens them, an infamous prisoner is still atop of him, sleeping soundly.

He looks... peaceful. Better than a few minutes ago, when he was shaking and clinging to him for dear life.

At this very moment, Zenith decides that there's nobody else, in this entire galaxy, that he hates more than Spork himself.

Slender digits runs across his scalp, fixing an antennae from his shoulder to the back of his neck. Crew doesn't protest when Zenith finally lifts both of them up from the floor, guiding his new companion to the safety of the bed. Warmed sheets await Crew -- but not him. Disentangling, the taller one manages to slip him in bed without accidents, and the covers relax the overly tense form of him in a few minutes.

Standing for a few moments, he leans down to peck at the other's forehead, drawing back a a bit startled when he catches himself. Crew doesn't stir. The room is silent, soundproof and immensely cold. With that, Zenith turns away and reaches his hand to palm at the keypad over the exit, gracefully striding away from the corridor to resume his usual, horrid work.

He's in need to experiment. And most of all, for some silence.


	6. VI -- Dampening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody should deal with Spork alone. Also, they should stop making out with concussions.

When Crew wakes up, he doesn't see Zenith around.

But his scent is more than pressing at the bridge of his nostrils. It's laced in the cape he stole, in the sheets and in the pillow he's currently resting his head on. On him, too. It feels overwhelmingly nice, and he has to force himself to wake a few more times, regretting his relaxation more than anything else. He was a light sleeper for many reasons, and to be up and on the go the moment he cracked his eyes open was the principal one of them.

He didn't needed to, now. But he still hated the groggy feeling in his limbs and his mind.

And the new feeling of craving the other, crashing over him like a tidal wave. There seemed to be a mantra repeating in his brain since yesterday: _Zen, Zenith, Zen_. It was a rhytmic thumping in the back of his head that sounded alarmingly close like a newly blossoming obsession, his chest tightening at the memories of the fact that he had an attack.

To protect -- to shield Zenith from the immediate danger the vicinity of Spork represented. Hearing him was enough to make him take the impulsive decision to escape -- and to bring the other with him. Anxiety and panic whirled around his mind until the safest route was to shield him with his own, scarred body from any attack. He expected Spork to maul him when he left the room, and he rocked back and forth in nothing but a spiral of downward panic until Zenith safely returned, unharmed if a little annoyed.

... He fell asleep on him. Oh Tallests above. He was _absolutely_ done for. 

His latest obsession nowhere to be seen, this left him some time to do anything he wanted. Forcing himself to leave the bed was the hardest part, but he shook himself awake quick enough to be at least partially lucid while he planned to trot from a room to another, exploring and peering at anything that might have given him a clue about Zen's life.

The bedroom was an easy task. He cautiously observed the dent he left in the metallic wall in his protective frenzy before discarding the closet, already explored the day prior. But he spent some time in admiring the colored, daring lights hanging above the bed he just left in awe, wondering where Zen could have gotten them. They didn't looked like anything he had ever seen, a black wire connecting tiny, colorful bulbs together over the metal frame used from someone to pull themselves out of bed, if they needed it. 

Before advancing further, Crew took upon himself to get presentable: he ripped off the remaining of his tattered clothes, tossing them in the trash bin he hid into (and still glaring at it for good measure) and buttoning up the coat until it covered as much as it could. There was still dryed blood down his legs, but it's not like it was an unfamiliar sensation to have his skin pulled back like that. He could have taken a shower later, in all calmness, while waiting for Zenith to come back.

For a long minute, he had considered the option that he was taken away for his crime of hiding a prisoner. Anxiety kicked the back of his head, but he kicked back harder with logic, concluding that he simply went to work. That -- and if he was discovered, they would have already got him, too. He resorted to wait and stumble across the other's living space, being as nosy as possible to keep himself occupied.

He peeked his head curiously into some sort of wall-in closet, marvelling to find himself between a mechanical broom and some poor cleaning supplies sitting atop of a small robot -- turned off, obviously. Even with a slight knock on his face visor it didn't responded, so Crew left it alone.

Another door wasn't opening, clearly linked to a special fingerprint keypad near it. Settling off an alarm was the least of the things he needed, so he tried in any way possible to break the door open: by scratching at the metal in a certaint spot (ouch, his fucking claws--), grimacing and trying to pry the small dent between the doors open with force, to grunting at the whole ordeal and finally leaving it alone, hands too sore to continue prying further. Looks like he'll have to explore this entrance another time. 

Crew couldn't help being a little frustrated: the entire room smelled like Zenith, but there was nothing of _his_ around. This could have been a simple, standard room (which he had some memories of) if not for the wardrobe filled with purple and violet clothes -- and the lights over the bed. He was disappointed that Zen didn't tried to imprint his whole self into the room, challenging the anonimous Irken standard, and it drew a frown out of him that his own savior didn't rebelled enough. If it was him, he would have smashed the room to pieces and redecorated everything in his style just to spite the authorities. But he wasn't done, there was still a room to sneak into.

Apparently, there was an office too. It was small, but the scent of Zen was much more present than in the sterilized, precise quarters. There was a desk with scattered papers all over it, on the moving, simple chair too and Crew even stepped on some of them on the way in. He observed the mess in amusement. Pens of different colors were (at least) messily collected into a twisted band left to fend for itself near an unfinished trail of chemical formulas that gave him the start of an headache. Over the desk, a solitary speaker and chemicals in little, tidy bottles that Crew quickly scuttered away from, almost landing straight into the single bed straying into the corner of the room. 

The sheet smelled like him, and this tiny room had more Zenith into it than any other places in the whole complex.

There wasn't much else. It was the essentials, the walls not hiding anything else and a lone, circular window showing off space and the glittering stars. They were moving at a slow speed for what it looked like -- passing small and big planets along. The view enthralled him for a while, before he forced himself on his feet and out of the room. 

He couldn't have known if it was okay for him to spy around, but he wasn't gonna test any reactions just yet. 

\-----

Long, slender digits were tapping away at the floating oloscreen, violet eyes tracing over the words he was typing with the utmost attention, precision and concentration. Nevermind the screams just in front of him, the vision blurred by vibrant blue that stung his eyes. Near him, Spork sighed in frustration, and the oloscreen was lowered to allow Zenith to stare at the Tallest.

He looked terribly angered. And his sharp istinct made him open his mouth, aware that if his anger would have been ignored for longer, it would have focused on the other side of the glass.

''Is something wrong, sir?''

The Tallest's eyes settled a vague sense of nausea when they shifted to peer at him. He frowned, and Zenith held his gaze for as long as Irkenian-ly possible without moving a muscle of his face. 

''You remember the matters in my hands, yes? The particular prisoner escaping?''

He nodded deeply, turning off the oloscreen to stare at him better. To his immense satisfaction, Spork looked worse for wear: deep bags under his tattooed eyes, his hands twitching from what he assumed being lack of sleep for the immense amount of orders he had to dispense and tasks to comply and people to reassure -- as well as coming up with a better defense system mechanic. It was his responsability after all.

''He was a special prisoner. My special prisoner.''

Oh, so that was...

Why didn't he envisioned it sooner? It was obvious in the strained anger in Spork's voice, and in the reaction of Crew at the sound of the other's voice. How quickly the situation seemed to click together even before the moment the revelation of him and Crew having ties was shown. 

Somehow, it made something dark and scalding coil in the pits of his stomach.

''I had him in the cells for years. He never saw the daylight, aside from the partecipations in a session of the Bloodsports -- and another occasion that you should know quite well. So, obviously, this is a big problem.''

It was, indeed. Even moreso when Zenith's mind got projected to his room, where the other was free to roam around his quarters. Sleep in his bed. Curl around him. Kiss him by surprise. He had to struggle to keep the embarassment down, only nodding and paying attention to the other.

''Say... would you happen to know where he is?''

For a short moment, his mind went blank. Of course he knew, but Spork supposing that he was eager to spill the details of it was moronic as it sounded, and he was hoping that the Tallest wasn't willing to be serious. But as far as this all went, Zenith gave him a tilt of his head, doing his best to look rightfully confused.

''No, sir. The mechanism of the doors locked a few seconds before the first blared alarm started, and it kept me in for a day and some. Even if willing, I wouldn't had the chance to meet him.''

He saw Spork dozing off for a few seconds as he was explaining, then nod and resume looking at the torture going on between them and the glass. A few meters under them, in a red room taller than wider, a fellow Irken's abdomen was being slit open and exposed to scalding air to test the effect of something, something... regarding new suits for the guards, he remembered his colleagues chiding. They were okay with this, perfectly willing to bypass a few murders just to carry on with their duties.

Not that he could judge them too harshly. Wasn't he doing the same?

''Sir, on another matter: the informations and reaction we witnessed are enough to determine that a termo-resistant jumpsuit can be made. We should proceed to test the armors, no--''

Cold, round metal and an handful of thin fingers clasped around his throat, slamming his head towards the glass.

The sudden, strong impact was enough to make the back of it bounce, a dozen bright stars over a black field clouding his vision before he was met with Spork's face a few millimeters from his. Zenith's shock could have been palpable, but not enough to placate him. If anything, the sharp incisors showing under his curled upper lip only fueled him.

''If I catch even a scent on him around -- just an antennae, just a single limb -- around, you're done for. You, and _every-single-other-Irken_ on this fucking ship. If he escaped, he better be floating dead in space, and not hidden. Remember this.''

With that warning, he was released: he wheezed for the sudden burst of air in his lungs, coughing a couple times while he was finding balance again over the glass. He could feel the bruises forming over his abused neck, but this was enough for Spork. He had cut his terrifyingly supply of anger, and he commanded at him to go with a satisfacted smirk and a careless gesture. 

\----

The exact same moment when he was going to bee-line for the kitchen, the door opened, and Zenith was back.

Fixing the lining of his coat, his back straight as a fuse as always, he locked eyes with the other -- exactly as Crew jumped on his feet to greet him, stiffening as if caught in the terrible act of snooping instead of finally relaxing.

''You're awake,'' Zenith observed, a little startled if anything. ''Did you rested well?''

''Yeah...''

Both of them weren't willing to take the matter of yesterday into their own hands. Zenith's facial features softened, but Crew's eyes shoot elsewhere.

''Zen -- what the fuck are those?''

Oh, yeah. Spork.

''A rendezvous with my superior,'' Zenith mumbled, a pint of anger bubbling under his skin. For what, he couldn't quite pinpoint: the threats and serious physical abuse was often part of Spork's protocol to instil fear and command, so it wasn't this to have angered him. It was something else, external, and it bugged him to not know what it was fully.

He saw Crew's eyes tighten, narrowing with disgust. ''That piece of...'' 

''... Outdated, discarded piece of waste material?'' Zenith guessed, trying to joke. It only seemed to make Crew glare at him further, which ripped a playful smile out of him. And his wrist too, taken into a strong hold by the other as he was dragged into his small office.

If Crew explored the quarters in his absence, it wasn't questioned.

''Sit there,'' he got commanded, obediently sitting on the small bed. ''And wait for me.''

While Crew disappeared from view, Zenith let out an incredulous sigh: he was being... bossed around by his own host? Was he really going to allow that...? It didn't looked like he had a choice, as he opted for quiet acceptance and let a possible concussion make his own head swim around. Zen crossed his ankles, hunched forward and ran a finger over what he imagined being bruises over his neck -- the back of his head was still throbbing, and he was sure that a lump was already forming. Just great. 

The smaller Irken slid back into the room soundlessly, almost startling him: Zenith hadn't noticed before just how quiet Crew could be -- but his feet almost didn't made any noise while padding on the cold metal, despite the nakedness of them. He figured that, logically, they could have made some sounds, and... why was he focusing on that so hard? Shaking his head lightly didn't helped, and a cold hand on his shoulder was pressing him to lean back from his hunched position.

''Okay, your cabinet is more stuffed than I imagined,'' the prisoner spoke, huffing in annoyance. ''And I don't know what half the shit written on there meant, but I got this, uh... super cold cream. Should help.''

It was. He almost groaned in relief at the touch of the icy cream, where the numbness was beginning to turn into the unfamiliar burning sensation of bruises being touched again. He could also feel Crew's every piece of hardened skin over the center of his fingers and palm, which should have been uncomfortable... but for the grateful help or the concussion, he allowed him to massage over his neck. Plus, he had such a focused expression that he didn't wanted to ruin it, the feel of helpfulness that the situation was probably instilling him.

Orange, frowning orbs affixed on him with stern, which prompted him to smile. Whatever Crew was gonna say to him got swallowed back by seeing that, and his frown deepened. Zenith's smile too.

''Stop it. Stop smiling.''

''Can't,'' came the light reply, a smile still tilting his lips upward. ''You look funny when you make that face.''

''I look...?!''

''Funny,'' he repeated, sounding absolutely pleased with himself. Smug, even.

When his head lolled into his hand, Crew was tempted to bat away at it -- and the concussion wasn't the only reason he was straining himself from doing so. No, there was his half-lidded eyes and something deep and amused at the bottom of them. Something sweet that Crew couldn't quite pinpoint, and couldn't help but notice how small the room suddendly turned. And how thin the other's lips were, and how a soft smile like that made his cheekbones stand out sharply.

He felt very fucked. In both the senses of the word.

''Stop smiling like an idiot,'' he gruffed out, side-eyeing him with a glare. ''Or else...''

''Or else?''

Oh, now that _did_ it. 

He straightened out, sporting a dangerous grimace disfiguring his face that he hoped was enough to scare Zenith into silence. 

''If you don't stop doing that... thing... with your mouth, I'm gonna kiss you stupid.''

... For an istant, the taller one of the pair really considered it. His eyes swam to the other's face, already turning a shade of deep green under his eyes and face, in a complete contrast with his scoffing, terrifying expression. Which didn't fooled anyone. Logically, Zen should have chuckled quietly and allowed the other to tend to his bruises without further jokes... but there was something bothering him. Something that had the angered voice of Spork linger in the back of his mind, while the situation seemed so light that it tugged at his teasing side.

Crew was not _his_ prisoner.

''The smile is staying there. You should probably consider the option 'or else', I'm afraid.''

And seeing Crew's blush blossom over the rest of his face and him splutter drew a soft laugh out of his lips, parting them enough for the other to crush them with their own.

More than crush, plenty of pressure was applied. Their lips squished together, the animosity of it that could have sent them tumbling backwards in bed if not for a readied arm of Zenith to brace themselves both on; strong arms were wrapped around his neck, Zen's other free arm following suit by wrapping around the smaller one's waist to draw him closer, bodies flushed. His back surged with a pang of electricity when Crew forced his tongue to twist with his, head tilting automatically to go even deeper.

It wasn't as romantic as Zenith thought it could have been: not like the first, timid one -- this one was harsh, tinted with exasperation and passion together, and it shook him deeply that someone, anyone, would want him as much as the one in his lap, kissing the everloving stars out of him. There was nothing logical to think about to reciprocate the kiss, his mind peacefully blank and something warm pooling in his lower abdomen as he felt his body against the other's. He could feel absolutely anything, almost through the soft coat of his he was sporting.

Yup, his lips were pretty fucking soft. When Crew tilted himself into the kiss he could feel Zenith respond akin with hunger and he felt himself almost faint. They were kissing for real. For real for real, not the complete failure of their first one. That, and the fact that he had been _starved_ for anything similiar to even the slightest bit of contact -- and there he was now, squishing himself against his savior. A very handsome, tall alien who somehow wanted him too.

It occurred to him that he could have sounded pathetic with all the wet noises occasionally snapping in the room, really.

Then he nipped at Zenith's lower lip and drew an outright _gasp_ out of him, and it really didn't mattered anymore.

Obsession swam in his head exactly like yesterday's concussion. He clung to him closer, and he found himself hanging back from Zenith's lap as the latter dug clawed hands into his hips, squeezing and finding the buttons of his borrowed coat to defile.

 _Pop_. The first one was out, and the heat was getting unbearably hot. _Pop_ , and the second one was rolling on the floor too, and Zen was sucking at his tongue in a way that made his leg turn into jell-o and a pathetic whimper escape his mouth and suffocate into the others one.

When he dug his palm into the back of his neck to sink deeper, he heard an hiss of pain coming from his partner and immediately popped away from tormenting his mouth, startled by the sound. Zenith drew back with a gasp, obviously sparking back to reality with his eyes squeezed shut and an hand darting to cup the back of his lower head to check for damages.

''Sorry, sorry, s--sorry!''

It felt like somebody blew out a candle, and spat on it, too. The atmosphere dampened the moment he realized that he accidentally hurt Zenith, which had already recovered by the time he stopped inwardly freaking out about it. Both of them were disheveled and flushed to the tip of their antennae, clothes mussed and Crew skipped out of Zenith's lap as if he bit him, quickly gathering the semi-opened coat into a more decent, closed angle.

''I--I can go get you painkillers?''

Zenith stood quiet, half in shock and half in longing: they were both giving eachother puppy eyes of desperation, and the room was eerily silent before he cleared his throat, fixing the lab coat that slipped past his shoulders.

''Please, do.''

The rest of the day passed in an uncomfortable, tense silence which had the two Irkens tip-toeing around eachother -- in a way that terrified them both, but without knowing what else to do. 

In the short time that he had to get to know Zenith, he silently deduced that he was the kind of Irken to internalize things. Never speak if something alarming or traumatic happened -- but even something good, or slighty exciting. He kept anything to himself, secretive until the end and so sure of his place in the world to never question it. He sweeped, then resumed his life. And he'd be damned if he was going to let him pull this bullshit on an important moment like this. 

When it was time to slip in the warm covers, Crew took the matter in his own hands and followed him suit, the taller Irken widening his eyes when he slipped under his arm and over his chest. But he didn't moved, simply seemed to accept the new sleeping location of his roommate and circled (Crew internally cheered himself) his waist, angling his head on the soft pillow to look at him... to find a sharp finger poking his upper lip.

''What happened today was fantastic, and I'm still kinda shivering from it. So don't you dare rugsweep it, or I will murder you.''

For a moment, he could see the bright surprise in Zenith's eyes. After a second, it turned in the same warm gaze he gave him in his small office and he let out a breathy chuckle, his hand squeezing his back gently. ''Alright. What else?''

''... Am I a good kisser?'' He grumbled the question, green blossoming in two pointed dots under his eyes. 

''A very good one. I, _ahem_... am out of pratice, but you seemed to be atop of this.''

Oh. So he was better than him at something. His antennae perked up a bit, and a wide grin spread over his features in a wolfish display of smugness. It was just a normal conversation -- as normal as his life could get, in a warm and toasty bed, and this could go for a while. But he was getting sleepy, prompting him to pointedly yawn and close his eyes with indifference.

''Yup, I am. Considering how virginal you act, I wouldn't be surprised if you weren't a good kisser yourself.''

The splutter of an offended, flustered scientist ripped a peaceful smile out of his approaching slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do you mean this chapter has both angst, fluff and slight smut?


	7. VII -- Determination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heartfelt talks. A new purpose found, and drones are shitty creatures. Bit of hurt/comfort chapter.

_Be be bo bip_

_Be be bo bip_

What an annoying sound. It made his antennae shake for a moment, before he settled back against the warmth near him. Atop of him. He could hear a soft, lulling snore that begged him to stay in bed.

_Be be bo bip_

_Be be bo bip_

_''Good morning, Subject 22.097! Open your eyes, it's time to be productive! Another gooood day of work!''_

A non-committal grunt followed. Tired, violet eyes glared at the machine as if it would have been enough to incinerate it, while his bedmate stirred beside him with a faint groan. A small floating ball was floating over them, the annoying way of intruding into lazy Irkens all too familiar for the complex surveilance system to be left alone. It was a small part of it that beeped incessantly and flashed images until his mischievous acts had bothered anyone enough to force them out of bed.

_Bip bip bip_

''Oh, it seems that you have a guest! Indulging in company can be very pleasant! Commence scanning of the other subject!''

It was enough to make his blood run cold, and make the scientist bolt to his feet in a matter of seconds. He wasn't young in any measures, but at the mention of a scanning, his brain wasn't awake enough to formulate a possible plan. It was a gut reaction, his hand shooting out to grab the floating drone with the hardest grip he could muster. His intention was to shatter it to bits and bolts -- but the little floating ill-mannered ball had another plan in mind.

He found himself lifted into the air by several feet and hanging to the drone with both of his hands now, finding out that Crew had been observing him for a while with a stupefied expression on his face. 

They stared at eachother for what solidly felt like hours, Zenith struggling to cover the sensor's eyes while suspended in the air and Crew with his mouth hanging open, blinking an eccessive amount of times.

Then he absolutely _balked_ with a roar of laughters that startled the taller one, and almost making him lose his grip on the small robot. His cheeks began to turn purple before he could stop it, the roaring laughter reverberating through his bones and the entire room.

''Crew! At least -- help me down!''

The latter flashed him a wolfish grin, before strolling out of bed -- _with all the calm in the world, he noted with irritation_ \-- ad simply yanked at his uniform to drag the taller one down to the ground. While he had a bad landing on his rearside, he witnessed Crew slipping the small sphere out of his hands and crush it effortlessly, bullons and bits scattering to the pavement and passing through clawed, chipped digits as Crew shot the other a smug smirk.

Obviously annoyed by now, Zenith relished in his superior height to try and intimidate the other into silence. Such a barbaric display of dominance wasn't uncommon in Irkens, but he felt like he suddendly regressed in the evolutionary scale when the other remained perfectly at ease, shaking his hand away from the marks metal left and shooting a wicked smirk up at him. It wasn't working -- mainly due to Crew having known his kinder nature, and he scoffed through his nostrils right in his face, the tubular tongue of the other darting out of his mouth in an insolent gesture that prompted him to replicate it in a childish manner.

Whatever was happening to him, he wasn't sure: Crew efficiently coaxed the immature, playful side out of him with relative ease, such as them standing in the middle of the room and arguing about pointless things.

''I almost had that.''

''I noticed,'' Crew grinned, retracting his tongue and cocking his head to the side. ''I would also get propelled across the room by a small drone. Effective plan, Zen.''

He could feel purple blush heating up his face, lips twisting in a warning grimace to the other. ''And how would you know how drones work? Perhaps I had a plan.''

''Perhaps,'' Crew conceded, snickering. ''Getting thrown from a side to another can be a good one. If you're planning on breaking your back, that's it.''

That earned him a playful glare. However, Zenith's mood boosted in seeing the other so talkative and seemingly in a good spirit, even when he moved himself back into bed. His form splayed across the bed lazily, over messy covers, and studied him with half lidded pools of fire. Inviting. Very tempting, but he was still vaguely tense thanks to that drone, despite the destruction of it having set the computer on silent.

That, and it was too early to go to work yet. Somehow his energies weren't sapped by the accident instead of the solid dread setting in his stomach by this hour, so he decided to be indulgent. The mattress slighty plied under his weight as he sat down by Crew's head, studying how the coat he borrowed hugged his back in slight curves: he could guess te shoulders, his pronounced shoulderblades, the curve of his lower back, and his slender digit mechanically dragged itself in a circle just under one of his thin bones, prompting the other to shudder. Seeing as Crew was not assaulting him or moving away, he kept the motion in place, caressing the skin under the smooth fabric with slow movements.

Then, Crew indeed moved: slowly, tentatively, he reached up to bury his face into Zenith's shoulder from behind, a purr stiftling his antenna and making him shudder too as the other curled about behind him. Solid hands grasped around his uniform to keep him in place and allow Zenith to reach for his hand, the thumb caressing the scarred skin of his hand. Whatever prompted this felt nice, and he didn't felt the need to move away. 

''How long since somebody touched you?'' He asked softly, taking courage in the hold around him.

''What touch?'' He heard a sharp laugh breathed right into the fabric, then an hum. ''Horrible, for tortures, or nice contact? Because for the latter, you're the first that I remembered touching me... and more... like this.''

Pity was the desire's killer, but there was none in thinking about how Crew survived until now. And how starved he was for affectionate touches, which he could comply with little problems once the barrier between them lowered. There was bickering, so there could have been trust, right?

''Why do you let me stay here?'' Crew questioned after a while, genuine curiosity in his voice, and Zenith's mouth clamped shut to think of a reply.

Why... he wasn't sure. The decision was mostly impulsive after the other begged for him to be let inside, even if his brain was aware of the risks. A possible execution of them both, or a lifetime booked trip in the prisons, exile on a planet with non-breathable air. Why he took the risks he couldn't be too sure himself -- but he acted on Crew's eyes begging for help. But for the prideful Irken, that probably wasn't a good answer to give.

''I don't know. It was mostly non-planned... but they were after you, so it was the correct thing to do.''

''Even if they would execute you on the spot if they found me here? Or that I could have killed you?''

''Expecially because of that.''

There was silence, and an incredulous scoff after. ''So, you're suicidal and I was your possible ticket out of life?''

''Not quite,'' he indulged him again, mulling over the words. That he was incredibly tired of his usual routine and the horrors he was exposed to wasn't a mistery, but he had no real desire to die. He'd rather not become an experiment for tortures himself -- a clean disappearence would have been better. Existence slowly fading off into nothingness, a more fascinating concept that could have been achieved with a simple deactivation of the PAK placed in a rather private part inside of him. 

Much, much more efficient and functional in terms of position than the previous generations of Irkens -- which had their life functions and nutriments placed over a very exposed area of their backs, the higher heads eventually figured that it was time for a new, sneakier placement for something so vital. Backside PAKs began to disappear after precise, innovative intervention to connect them elsewhere, and made the target that they were smaller: for praticity, in case of the solid metal breaking due to traumas or direct blows, the necessary proteins and mixture of nutrients to freely seep into the infortunate Irken's body. This, the technicians figured out, granted Invaders and Elites alike up to ninety-six hours of full autonomy due to the vitals not abandoning the body -- which were more than enough to struggle back to the Mothership for getting fixed, and back up to conquer another planet again.

 _One of the most intelligent solutions to something so obviously vital but danger_ , he thought. But those Irkens who had older models (like him and a few of his colleagues) had to bear with the new, alien sensation of finding themselves split open, with a familiar yet foreign object into their insides, and an extremely painful spinal injury from the PAK's old methods of installment. It took a few shots of a semi-solid injection that made him nearly pass out from the horrible, clogging sensation of nerves, for himself to get up and work again. Most of those who submitted to the change couldn't operate their bodies for days, until the PAK could properly attach itself and provide natural painkillers and quick datas to the brain in how to adapt to it. And despite the gross sensation of foreignment -- he had to admit: it worked better.

The fact that those were old memories of his academic period, yet still felt terribly vivid, didn't helped.

''You asked for my help. And I guess I helped because we're similiar, in a way.''

'' _Similiar_? Have you looked at me closely?''

He had more than a single occasion to do that. More than closely, but that was beside the point he was trying to make.

''It's not about our looks, Crew. It's just...''

''You can say that I looked like I needed help,'' he conceded, voice bitter. ''I wasn't in a... nice state.''

Zenith blinked, turning as best as he could towards him. He remembered the begging, but vaguely. And it wasn't a matter of helplessness or not.

''On the contrary. You looked more alive in that moment than possibly in your own cell.''

A moment of stunned silence followed. He could feel Crew's head shifting to look at him, incredulous orange globes staring up at him in disbelief, and an hint of something a bit warmer. He wasn't sure of what. ''You're lying your ass off.''

''I am quite serious. I promise. You're more alive to this day than me.''

Another long pause. He could feel the other shift against him, swallow and make some extensive mental gimnasics to think of something.

''Is this why your rooms are so empty?''

''... Excuse me?'' And what had that to do with anything else they just discussed?

''Your rooms are empty, literally every single one of them. It's just your office that has stuff that is... _you_. Is it because you're not alive? You look pretty alive to me. Why would you consider yourself dead? And what on Irk are you gonna do if you get caught?''

The plethora of questions startled him slighty. Crew has been talkative, but never this straightforward unless it was playful -- and the tone wasn't. It was serious, inquisitory, and he felt like he was being put under a LED lamp and scrutinized. He drew a long sigh, and tried his best to respond in kind.

''I do not consider this place really mine. Just some quarters to live in, in a rigid environment. We are all hosts there until otherwise spoken. Secondly... my job is to assist Spork in sectioning and cutting up prisoners. I am forced to take notes of their agony and to watch it. Prisoners like you.''

He could feel Crew's hands spasm around his middle. But he was spilling now, so he might as well be blunt. Words were flowing out of his mouth with a bitter tone and without a full stop.

''Without an ounce of a doubt everyone else would be at the top of the stars if they were assigned with this job. Without a doubt I would have been if it was sooner, if -- you know, if it hadn't been watching us getting tortured just for the sake of it. Because we hide behind the purpose of bettering the battling suits our soldiers carry, but it's all for Spork's entertainment. Those Irkens down there -- they mean nothing to him, nothing to anyone. They're tools to entertain, and to be discarded afterwards. They're--''

''Zen,''

Zenith turned sharply, witnessing a trasformation in his companion that he wasn't expecting. He looked pale, shivering, and had curled around himself as much as possible. Glossy eyes squeezed closed and head shaking frantically, antennae flat against his skull.

''Please, _stop_. This is exactly how...'' 

He wanted to inquire. But Crew suddendly looked worse for wear, and all he could do was drag him closer to his chest to offer comfort to the reaction he caused. Or at least he imagined he was being the cause, a large pang of guilt crushing his throat as he tried desperately to make it better. It seemed to work -- with a shaky breath, the other's face sunk into his shoulder, claws gripping at his uniform until the shakes subsided and he could feel the bones in the prisoner's back shudder in revolution at the display of what, he was sure, Crew would have barked 'weakness'.

''This was how he always talked. I fucking _hate_ his voice. And his words... and everything else about him. He just...''

The word he was trying to resume everything in was _powerlessness_ , a sensation all too known to Zenith. 

''I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shake you...'' 

His hands stood firm around the other's body, to provide the best comfort that he could muster. He guessed it by watching them agonizing and beg for help on a table, spread open and examined -- those prisoners were Irkens too, just like him. Just like all of them -- and it didn't helped that he decided to help one of the many. Probably Spork's own personal prisoner, which sounded less like the terrifying depiction of the cold-blooded killer his now destroyed file depicted, and more like someone who was more similiar to him than he thought, and which Spork broke just for entertainment.

He had a singular, very unpacific-like urge to look for the Tallest and drive a pair of scissors down his eye. And watch as the blood tinted the walls, colorful and contrasting with the sudden urge to hurt he had--

He felt a tug at his uniform from above, Crew's lips hovering over his own in search for something. He didn't hesitated before pressing them to his own. He could _finally_ analyze Crew better, without one of them being in the fog or completely out of it.

His lips were chapped and thin, so Zenith could feel every ridge and cress in them as they stood in a chaste, calming kiss in the middle of the mussled bed. Slender digits tapped over the other's back in an invite to relax with him, claws barely touching the skin through the fabric, following an unknown rhytmic tap-tapping and drawing a small purr out of the prisoner. Crew was the one who pulled away, a bit flushed and looking extremely pleased with himself. Zen's finger poked the bridge between his eyes, aloof.

''I would hope that you weren't seeking out affections with false informations.''

''Mm, nah. All of what I said is true. I just wanted a kiss.''

Visibly more relaxed, he sighed and leant back against the taller Irken, eyes closing. The atmosphere visibly relaxing, Zen seemed content to just exist against the warm body of the other. Sleepiness was just an added bonus, despite how much he disliked to stand still for too much.

''Zen?''

''Mmm.''

''You should probably go to work.''

...Oh, right. Tallest damn it. He shoot to his boots at the same time Crew pulled away, watching with fascination as he discarded the uniform of the day prior; Zenith had a really nice back. Smooth, scaled with almost unseen creases and small, little scars dotting the pale, green skin: the prisoner could spot the old, closed hole shadow of an old PAK between his shoulderblades, and see his biceps moving as he slipped the uniform on and regarded him with an embarassed side-look, keeping his trousers on and deeming them worth of being worn once more before wrapping himself up in the familiar, brand new laboratory coat. Bummer. But his firm and precise movements were interesting to watch, showing the firm certainty that was Zenith as a whole. Under control and not succumbing to anything.

Or at least, so he hoped.

On the way out, the scientist grabbed the simple, plastic folder that seemed to be a costant in him and glanced at his partner, cross-legged in bed and watching him like an hawk.

''Crew... if we do get caught, we're going down together. There is no possible, logical way that I will be leaving you alone to deal with this all.''

This was payback for something. Emotional attachment that was born from two individuals alone in the world on a stupid, gigantig spaceship belonging to the Armada, and a subtle reassurance that they weren't parting ways -- if it was for Zenith himself.

Crew wasn't sure what other factors could have crept them away from eachother. But he couldn't suppress the chill running down his spine at the vivid daydream about Zenith's lifeless corpse at the end of this shitfest of events, the color of his blood tinting the floor in waves.

If Zenith was offering him protection, all he could do was offer back his own tools in kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, looks like i managed to stuff some meta here. i wanna keep a good balance between romance/plot so here i gooooooo


	8. VIII -- Mulling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sight of space can often lead to incredibly soft moments.

''You seem happy today,'' a deep voice mused from his left side, prompting violet eyes to look up. Who spoke was an Irken with the same lab coat as him, two oloscreens floating in front of his light brown eyes. He was staring at him with a knowing smile, prompting Zenith to smile back at him.

''Indeed,'' he mused. ''I'm excited for this experiment in particular. We worked plenty on it, yes?''

''Absolutely! This needs to work. For the sake of the Empire -- and for the sake of Almighty Tallest Spork, too.''

Hearing the name dampened his mood immediately, a tug at the corner of his lips not enough to reveal it. He suspected that all the Irkens in this room were, always, loyal to that floating sack of hystrionic tyranny. So he nodded in reply, taking a few steps away to examine one of the oloscreens that floated in front of him, complex Irkenian characters in front of him to read. He skimmed over them, closing the window with a flick of his fingers and the familiar lack of interest while they all waited to get around the finishing part.

Despite the early hour, the laboratory was buzzing with activity: excited, sparkling eyes and white coats were floundering everywhere at top speed, oloscreens in black gloves claws and the buzzing of whispers being shared around, the clack of boots fumbling around rooms. If it was for Zenith himself, he would have simply disappeared back to the inner laboratory -- the biggest room so far, filled to the brim with gigantic vials, stroboscopic lights and a computer big enough to store a terrifying amount of data on a moving olo and to write on it, too. His favorite place to hide into whenever he couldn't get away from work for a long time -- which now he had to.

There was someone waiting in the room for him, and he hoped that the presentation would be quick enough. He knew that Crew hated to be left alone...

His claw hovered over a stilographic pen in his pocket. ... What exactly was happening with him to feel giddy about leaving work? As far as he recalled, the only times he felt the littlest bit satisfacted with himself was when he holed his body and mind in his studies. 

Now, his feet struggled not to carry himself out of the shiny doors and back to his quarters at a marching pace: there were new thoughts and new anxieties in the back of his mind, and they namely had bright pools of fire as eyes and were wearing his cape around his rooms. Confusing and daring, Crew was a wonder to be discovered and a playful Irken that never failed to bring out a side of him that he thought dead and gone, a part of his personality that egged him further with sarcasm and a playfulness that didn't quite existed before he came into his life. It was easy and felt liberating to bicker with him for pointless things, seeing the prisoner so... himself.

Without a doubt, while down in the cells, he was held back in development: what Zenith saw was a sensitive, caring individual that masked it behind equally sincere smug remarks and pointy-toothed grins, childish and amusing in his own ways. And he couldn't resist engaging him, eager to see more of this personality and to have the other feel comfortable around him. Physically, and mentally. While the muscles he had masked a great deal, he could have seen the edges of his ribcages from a mile long -- the moment he relaxed and was offered safety, without a doubt his PAK synched with his recover and allowed nutrients to pump into his system again. It was a good explanation -- the only one possible. A logical, precise one that he much rather preferred to anything else. 

There was also the more pressing matter of the prisoner being attracted to him --which he didn't mind at all, not being sure himself. He showed signs of trust and to be comfortable around him, and there was need when he was tugged down for lip-locking. He couldn't be sure himself if the situation was pleasant and what the signs were, as the inept Zenith was. But it started to feel natural to be around the other, the anxiety at the back of his mind easing noticeably whenever the other was around. A stone lifted from his shoulders and placed somewhere else, to be picked up on his way to work. His body reacted to the other's presence, but the confusion in his mind prevented him from doing anything that wasn't satisfying the prisoner to a degree. 

Body contact had never been his strongest point, he'd have to admit...

''He's here!'' A whisper stifled his antennae, making him jolt and align against the wall next to the smiling colleagues he got. Folder in his hands, he witnessed the grossingly tall Tallest Spork enter the room with a lazy float, regarding them with barely a look of annoyance before proceeding into the next room in a messy bee-line, excited to show him their results. He was about to follow, when he felt a tug at the back of his coat.

''Hey,'' he witnessed Crew the moment he turned around, the other Irken visibly looking pleased and having a pile of clothes messily tucked under his forearm. He showed them off proudly. ''I managed to snatch these from a laundry drone. Ha! I bet that they're gonna fit me nicely.''

''You _stole _clothes? You rascal,'' was the playful reply, Zenith's body already losing tension. He leant forward to take a look at the clothes, humming to the nice surprise Crew paid him--__

__He was talking with _Crew_. Out in the open. With his colleagues in the room just a few feet away from them._ _

__He didn't gave himself much time to think. A few seconds at best, with his blood running cold as the reptile he was -- then, he leant down with a lounge to grab at the other as best as he could to hoist him up on his shoulder, and bolted out of the room._ _

__He could feel the surprised protests of the other, the claws grasping at the back of his coat to regain balance. Some desperate attempts to call his name to wake him up from the desperate sprints his body was forced to make, due to the adrenaline shot that was running laps through his body, but he didn't cared._ _

__For what seeming luck he had, he met a few Irkens strolling by that paid his scuffle with the prisoner nothing more than a small, puzzled glance to the anomaly of tranquility. When he turned the corridor to his own room, he smashed the keypad in with a solid punch and ran the last lap to his personal bed, slamming Crew onto it and doubling over to get air into his body._ _

__It wasn't working. He wheezed, sure to be completely devoid of color and yet completely flushed in the face, and he heard the other's worried voice ask him a question that didn't registered. His brain was buzzing with anxiety and his lungs weren't working properly -- it didn't helped that the seriousness of the situation was beginning to register, and that Crew's hands were at his side, massaging him gently and giving small pats to his back._ _

__''Come on, in and out -- breathe, slowly...''_ _

__He decided to follow the istructions given, the mild panic attack subsiding once he could gasp for enough air to take a full breath. The second he regained a bit of himself, his hands flew to grasp at Crew's middle arms, shaking him in solid panic. ''What were you thinking?!''_ _

__The other shook, searching his face for any signs of another panic crysis. Seeing none, he visibly relaxed and then frowned deeply, guilt written over his face. ''What the hell do you--''_ _

__''You know _exactly_ what I mean!'' Another shake. A swallow. ''You showed up in a public place -- there was Spork, there were my colleagues -- you could have been _seen_! What little consideration do you have for --''_ _

__''Hey --'' He got grabbed back, which infuriated him a bit further. Crew was attempting to wrestle free of his grasp, eyes wide with surprise at the sudden outburst. ''Calm down a minute, will you? Nobody saw me, there was just you in the room --''_ _

__''You couldn't have known! What if they saw you, and they're on their way there with the guards, you cannot possibly --''_ _

__The slap was sudden: it plied his neck and sent his face to the side, cheekbone immediately beginning to sting in more than just a place. He inhaled sharply, bringing an hand to his injured cheek and felt warm blood running down the side of his face, possibly for an accidental scratch._ _

__Crew was staring at him in disbelief at his own action, the accusing hand quickly sitting back in his lap as the other tilted his head at him, looking away. ''... Sorry. You wouldn't calm down.''_ _

__No, he couldn't. Now that pain was taking over the side of his head, he could. He inhaled again, dabbing at the scratch to wipe fluid away, more lucid._ _

__''You just... got out in the open. Alone. With a ship filled with Irkens from the cockpit to the tail. You really... you really think that nobody has seen you?''_ _

__''Duh. They don't even know my face, or what I look like.''_ _

__'' _... Pardon_?'' What?_ _

__Crew fidgeted, side-eyeing him carefully. His hands kept tormenting in his lap before he spoke again, a little more secure with his words._ _

__''Yeah. Most of the photos they shared around or that were seen of me was when I was just a little more than a smeetie. Or with my face covered by the Elite helm, or whatever bullshit you'd call that -- Nobody thought that I was gonna escape as an adult, so they, uh... didn't took any photos of what I look like now. Nobody remembers me. I'm pretty sure that I'm a bit safer if I just pay attention without getting holed up in here.''_ _

__None of this made sense... but it was Spork's behavior to take things for granted in the most positive way. To never think of a wrong outcome for his narcissistic attitude. With his breath still uneven, Zenith brought an hand up to his face to rub at his eyes, legs already knotting over from their kneeled position on the ground._ _

__The other was eyeing him warily, perfectly sitting in on his taloons and watching him with his head tilted: there was worry written over his face, and a bit of embarassment in his eyes as he averted them quickly._ _

__''I was tired of being holed up here. And, uh... I just wanted to see you.''_ _

__...Oh._ _

__A flush spread across both of their faces in unison, and they avoided talking for some seconds, Zenith inhaling deeply._ _

__''I do have to say that we spend an indecent amount of time together already...''_ _

__''Yeah? Then I want more.''_ _

__See, _this_ is what he was trying to mean when he expressed how things went from normal-ish to confusing, expecially when the other had such an intense gaze and a need that was crushing, suffocatingly present. Things were more than stable for the situation they were in -- why changing them in the span of a few minutes? Why did the other felt like this towards him, it was a mistery that Zenith didn't knew how to unravel. It was probably this to crush his lungs with anxiety -- and the long run he had to take. His hand slipped down to mask his mouth, but not the wicked blush on his cheeks, burning under his skin like lava._ _

__Why Crew seemed to want him so badly, he'd never understand._ _

__''I should probably get back to work,'' he interrupted the tense moment, slowly unbucking his knees and watching, with rising guilt, the puppy eyes the other was shooting at him. Nonetheless, he accepted the hand that was offered to him for the weak, shaky joints that he attribuited at the awkward position he took for some time. Crew's hands lingered for a moment before the corner of his mouth quivered upwards, in an expression that Zenith had never seen on his face. It looked pityful and terrible._ _

__''Then see you later,'' he mused, gently. ''I'm not gonna run away again. Promise.''_ _

__He could only nod at him, throat tight as he strode towards the door and turned for a last glance at Crew's back, turned and shuffling through the stolen clothes as he approached the bathroom. A soft handerchief was pressed on the already scarring cut on his cheek to dab away the dried blood. But the sad vibe the conversation left didn't sat well with him._ _

__\-----_ _

__He wasn't terribly late: the whole, anxious ordeal had lasted for just a few minutes at best, maybe fifteen, and he doubted that anyone would had noticed his absence. And while he was just about to slip, silently, into the laboratories again, he saw an ethereal figure approach him from the opposite side._ _

__Floating, dressed in a light blue, there was a female Irken: she sported the same physical features as Spork, her spine held together by metallic rings and protection, her fingers slender and thin that tapped at the brackets holding her arms together, she was easily recognizable. Zenith smiled and bowed deeply, without the forcefulness that he regarded her usual companion._ _

__''Almighty Tallest Miyuki,'' he started, as a wave of her hand sent him slowly back upright. ''It is a pleasure to see you. You'll be joining us for this demostration?''_ _

__''I might as well!'' She replied, a musical, soft voice that rang pleasantly along his feelers. ''My day was free, and Spork did mentioned that it was an important meeting. I figured I could have joined.''_ _

__''You're always welcome to see our work, my Tallest.''_ _

__''Then you won't mind escorting me inside?'' Miyuki asked, and Zenith nodded and bowed again to allow her inside before him. Once the doors closed, the few meters parting them from the actual demonstration room passed in amiable silence, slender fingers of him being scanned to allow them inside._ _

__The Tallest Miyuki was, by far, the most enjoyable company he was forced to entertain: Spork's terrifying moods and reasons to rule often scorned with her methods, but she held her ground and managed to somehow tame him into a vaguely less biased figure. It helped that she considered all Irkens with utmost compassion and affection, often leading meetings and taking important decisions when Spork didn't had the galls to. She was humming a faint tune, nodding at Zenith to thank him and floating wordlessly near her companion when the doors closed behind them, and he took his place without a sound and slipping by unnoticed. Nobody blinked at his absence, too engrossed in trying to impress the two of them and bowing obsessively and splitting to both greet her and unravel the project they've been working on for quite a while._ _

__'' -- and now that Almighty Tallest Miyuki has joined us, we can finally show you both our project! Please, the capsule!''_ _

__Pointing with a long, crooked finger, the young Irken who greeted him this morning was pratically glowing with pride as a tent-covered capsule was slowly lowered onto the platform they were circling. With a dramatic and unnecessary gesture, the tent was grabbed and it revealed a mannequin with an enhanced suit -- blue and red, with the Empire symbol encripted in the chest plate and the top of the protective helmet. Various, thin tubes coursed around the free space given from the arms down, joining in a perfect cross over the chest, and this was mainly where Spork's gaze fell on. Miyuki was cocking her head, long antennae perking up at the model._ _

__''Explain.''_ _

__''Yes, your Tallestness!'' The other piped up, gaining the upper-hand on a long pointer. Swiftly, he batted it at the helmet, then at the arms, and at the tubes connecting four little spheres absurdly similiar to PAKs scattered under the shoulderplates, on the end of where the spinal cord should have been and between the collarbone, where there was a clip to connect either a cape or unclip the small globes._ _

__''This is, of course, the standard protection on a battlefield -- enhanced vision is sitting on the inside of the bulletproof visor, analyzes the weather, the condition and the enemies on the field the moment the Invader sets foot out of the pod! It also gives them a brief rundown of the atmosphere, in which case... the lower part of the visor comes out to close, and forms a protective coil to prevent them from being either poisoned, or choked by the unknown!_ _

__This one is a decoy, obviously -- in our studies, we figured that many races that are against us will definitely know how important a PAK is to our survival, and the shape of it thanks to studies of our precedent technology. But fear not! Those decoys are deadly and distracting, lulling the enemies into an hit that will most logically destroy them to ensure a quick victory. After being broken, the fake PAKs release each one a different substance that is in progress to be optimized! A collous material that will trap the enemy and allow close combact, poisonous gas studied for each and own species of other beings, explosive substance that the suit is immune to -- and corrosive liquid for obvious purposes._ _

__The tubes connecting them give the impression of shared substance that can be cut easily, to allow the opponent to focus on cutting them off in hopes to end the vital functions of the PAK... and instead, they're met with an hardened, almost impossible to destroy material that is also scalding, thanks to the costant sharing of substances mixing and creating a temperature that the suit rends immune from!''_ _

__Almost withoud drawing a single breath, the younger scientist finished his long, enthusiastic spiel in just an hour or so, adding and subtracting details. Swiftly, he turned to face Spork and Miyuki -- the first having leant forward at the mention of venomous and disfiguring substances, while Miyuki had perked up with interest, slender fingers beginning to clap together with a smile._ _

__''Excellent! Those are all wonderful new ideas for the next batch of suits for our Elites! You've done a wonderful job for the Empire!'' And Spork nodded along, thrilled at the idea of violence but also bored with the whole spiel. Slowly, the room emptied of both the scientists and the Tallests, which were surrounded by them and being cajoled with questions and requests of attentions to other projects. Zenith hummed, happy to have escaped such a dangerous situation unscathed, and gave a polite nod to the lots, scurring away and back to his quarters with a slow, semi-relaxed pace that counter balanced the running marathon he had to take earlier that day, and placed his fingerprints to the keypad to allow himself in the room._ _

__He immediately spotted Crew, having approximately dressed from the waist down. Tight black spandex hugged around his legs in a fit measure, but his face was clouded over as he admired himself in a long, full-body mirror he managed to trigger out of the secluded niche in the wall. He had the shirt, an electric blue cloth, balled in front of his exposed chest. Noticing his disappointment, Zenith grew curious and approached him quietly, humming to make himself recognizable from behind the other's back._ _

__The more he stepped closer, the more evident the devastation that was his companions's back went clearing: zig-zagged, crossed and thin scars flourished on his back almost naturally, some of them disappearing to the front of his body. As he closed the missing distance, the prisoner turned sharply to his direction and widened his eyes, antennae flaring upwards like curled horns before narrowing them and having the classical, enjoyable green blush spread across his features._ _

__''You scared me half to death,'' he muttered, claws clenching the blue fabric._ _

__''What's wrong?'' Zenith asked, peering into the mirror for good measure. Crew inhaled sharply, exhaled and tilted his head -- and with horror, the scientist realized that he was close to tears, bridge of his face wrinkled._ _

__''It fucking sucks,'' he croaked out, an intake of sharpness to mask his real emotions. ''God, have you fucking _looked_ at me? I look like an used cutter...''_ _

__Used cutter... what a peculiar comparison. Crew had been more than enough to look at, and slender digits curled over his shoulders as he studied him in the mirror. Supple muscles, broad pecks that dipped down his abdomen and the scarrification of his old wounds going smoothly: many scars, but he was still alive._ _

__''You're doing well,'' he encouraged softly, head tilting to stare at him better. ''One day, those scars will remind you of a purpose -- I promise. It'll take time.''_ _

__Crew just grumbled, fisting his fingers into the soft fabric. Zenith traced one of his longest, most zig-zagged scars going across his shoulderblade with a finger, smiling satisfacted when the other shuddered and sucked in a breath, prompting an hum out of thin lips._ _

__''I kinda like them when you touch the dead skin,'' Crew confessed, but escaped his touch to slip on the upper top of the uniform. With some sort of clothes on now, he looked more in shape than ever -- but Zenith found it weird that he didn't plied under his hands. Usually, he would have started purring... but maybe it was an unpleasant day for him._ _

__''I can start to do it more often?'' He proposed, prompting the other to flush his usual color and to mutter come curses. Approaching, he grinned and let it go for the sake of the prisoner, who was at this point a spluttering mess pressed defensively against a wall. ''This sounds like a pretty clear yes to me...''_ _

__Glaring daggers, Crew bolted to grasp at his lab coat and bring him down to a more reasonable eye level, sharp teeth snapping at few centimeters from his face: it wasn't a gesture that scared Zenith the slightest, since he knew that the other would have never harmed him, and his smile widened when his face showed firstly surprise for the lack of reactions -- then a wide blush spreading across his features, making his eyes glimmer with embarassment. ''S--stop teasing me! What if I say yes like the last time?!''_ _

__''If you do, then I will just have to take you up on the offer,'' he remarked, snatching Crew's hands from his coat and swiftly whirling him around in an improvised dance step. It made him laugh to see Crew dazzled and confused, hanging onto his coat still and looking up at him like he suddendly spurted a second face._ _

__''You... are in a good mood?''_ _

__''Kind of,'' he mused, releasing the poor prisoner to his swimming head. ''Today's project went well, since Tallest Miyuki was there to see it.''_ _

__The other perked up, following his trail of thoughts. ''The... suit one, right?''_ _

__''Yes! Precisely!'' Zenith exhaled, visibly lightling up. ''It was as much of a success as it could have been. I am sure that it'll be one of the approved projects, at this rate -- and it'll just fuel us to keep working harder!''_ _

__He turned and his smile falthered a bit upon seeing Crew peering at him like a curious child, with wonder. Bright, fire globes quickly darted away and he hid behind the large turtleneck of the uniform, sinking into it. ''If there's something wrong with you...''_ _

__''No, uh, just... you look nice when you get this excited.''_ _

__Ah. _Touchè_. It was Zenith's turn to blush, startled by the stream of attention he was showered with. First Crew was attentive to what he had been blabbering about, and then just -- watched him in a special state of mind with intent and careful not to interrupt him. His sudden bashful nature was only puzzling him further._ _

__''You seem a lot more shyier than you usually are,'' he trailed, hoping for an explanation. Only silence came up as the other eyed him warily, giving the wall a knock to let the mirror sink back into it. More silence. Crew toyed with the hem of his new mismatched uniform, scuttering across of him like a slighty stunted crab. ''... Well?'_ _

__''I just feel cramped up,'' he eventually spat out, and Zenith noticed the tense shoulders under the uniform slighty bunching. Aside from the adventure of this morning, Crew couldn't get out -- obviously for his status, but after the informations he shared with him this morning..._ _

__He felt the metaphorical lightbulb turn on over his head. _Bingo_!_ _

__''You know,'' the scientist started nonchalantly, sporting a sweet smile. ''There is a place I wanted to take you much, much later... If you manage to still be awake, that is.''_ _

__\----_ _

__As much as he was restless to admit it... it was nice to sneak out of the quarters. He liked the place: it was a safe haven only Zenith could have accessed -- and he was his ally. And something more that swam in Crew's head like a particulary persistent fish looking for food, and thumping his head on the glass: it only synched with his heart when, upon taking the scientists arm, he doesn't pull away -- rather, slows down to allow them side by side._ _

__''Sooo... you're allowed to roam around at night because scientist's creativity cannot be stopped?'' He quirked a brow at the tall one, curious to see a smug smile curve his lips suddendly._ _

__''Precisely. Spork, fortunately, doesn't like to hinder our creativity -- the important scientists all have permission to access the laboratory at any time, at any hour, just in case of sudden ideas...''_ _

__''So you're a workhaolic,'' Crew snorted, feeling the smooth fabric of his coat crisp under his hold. ''Nothing new. You're taking me to...''_ _

__''Let me finish. While the laboratory's equipment is made to function at all hours, any day -- there's something else that I prefer to wander to.'' He explained simply, child-like excitement overtaking him for a moment. Stretching his walk, he dragged the smaller Irken with him in precise turns -- never once getting one wrong. The latter had fallen silent, grumbling and vaguely complaining about how long it was taking... but it would have been worth it._ _

__They took a ripid staircase up to a solitary elevation, their steps clacking on cold metal. Crew gaped, and Zenith drank his reaction eagerly, letting go of his hand to let him walk further._ _

__The gigantic window ahead of them showed nothing but space._ _

__The outside -- cold, but familiar space, as the Mothership passed planets, ruins, and nebulas slowly, and the small window he has in his quarters cannot compare to this: the endless deep, dark blue that helped Zenith himself stay calm and positive in trying times. Stars pooled at their feet and shadowed Crew's back, which reached the railing separating him from the hollow part of the closed cockpit and was gripping tightly at it. Knowing him, Zenith couldn't help but witness the tension uncoil from his body in waves: his shoulders lowering and slumping, his elbows pointing down and his antennae vibrating slighty before resting flat on his back._ _

__The scientist is about to say something sweet. Something witty, perhaps explain the history of this place -- when Crew slowly turns, and the stars are reflected in his eyes and over his deep green skin. Something warm churns inside Zenith's stomach at the sight, and he's rended speechless when the other's eyes affix on him._ _

__They look like round constellations. And it's the most captivating thing he has ever seen._ _

__Wordlessly, swallowing a mouthful of words, he makes his way at his side with a slow stride, hanging onto the railing to give his hands a purpose._ _

__''It's...'' When Crew speaks again, it's with an uncertaint and cracked tone that alarms Zenith. ''It has been a long time since I... saw space. Again.''_ _

__''I know,'' he says simply, struggling to even get the words out. ''It's calming. And... I believe that you really needed it. Needed to -- to see this, I mean.''_ _

__Crew settles for toying with one of his antennae, settling it back over his shoulder where it rests. It's limp as Zenith feels, and he settles to eye the space outside and get lost into it for a while. Silence settled comfortably between the two of them, the taller Irken sneaking glances at the enthralled face of the smaller one. It was a peaceful moment, but something wasn't going as planned._ _

__What was the strange, warm feeling in his chest, Zenith tried not to pinpoint it out._ _

__''Zen... I think that I really like you.''_ _

__On the elevated platform, alone and away from everybody while the Mothership rests, it's an easy thing to say. This is a point he thought he'd never reach for long years, being conflicted over his terribly dangerous feelings for the incredibly human prisoner he's hiding. But it's just Crew and him now, and when he makes the mistake to turn his mouth is dry and cracking like old leaves in autumn. Snippets of stars and the endless dark blue of space are reflecting in his eyes and over his skin and there's this terrifyingly small, sad smile over his face that cracks him. For the second time of the day, he finds himself at a loss for words: confessing like two smeeties over the sight of paradisiac space is definitely not something that Zenith had planned for a night out._ _

His brain pumps a million in a minute. _It's too dangerous. You're attracted to the wrong person. I'm not what you hope me to be. It's gonna lead us both to death. Why me?_ , but finds no words to build a refusal, and no tubular tongue to speak back for a few seconds, just to swallow. His mouth automatically opens when the other bats his eyes, space pooling over his eyes like a constellation guiding him down a captivating, blood-stained path with no hope for a safe return. And he knows that he cannot resist it. 

__''I like you too,'' The scientist finally says, feeling incandescent blush bloom under and over his cheekbones. It's a natural response to another natural situation, he thinks -- then his brain shuts down, the scientist part of it defeated over mere feelings._ _

__The most logical outcome, the most relaxing one, is how Crew steps closer and their fingers twine together, his warm weight leaning on his side as they rest against the rail. Zenith's arm circles around his waist to hold him closer, possessing a new feelings that makes anything near his insides bubble with a content, unknown warmth he previously only regarded with the satisfaction of a well-done experiment._ _

__The space has never been so beautiful._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was probably one of the softest chapters i ever wrote. i took my time with it and its gonna take me some days before i can post the next chapter, but i promise: its worth it. <:
> 
> EDIT: now with fanarts done by MEEEEE
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/147417401@N08/47312113411/in/dateposted-public/lightbox/)
> 
>  
> 
> [](//imgur.com/O872WhU)  
> 


	9. IX -- Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The realization comes with the smell of fresh, spilled blood.

After yesterday night, things should have cleared up in the most logical way possible. Both were aware of eachother's feelings, and they aknowledged it.

It doesn't. Surprisingly, choosing an highly wanted prisoner as a possible mate doesn't make things easier.

The comments that make him turn his head up and his cheek to a very, very unfair shade of violet are the ones about how flustered he has been seen. He gets slippery and his hands become so sweaty that he's forced to wear gloves to stop dropping items. And while his productivity doesn't decrease, he becomes the talk of the laboratory.

Zenith possibly has an interest in someone.

Who? Since when? What happened? And why do those people, meaningless puppets that never paid much attention to him, are chatting about his personal life? Despite the glares, it only seems to make things worse, and he begins to feel more at ease hidden behind a long, protective mask to avoid inhaling the fumes of his own experiments, little clinking beckers between fingers -- and to be done later than his colleagues to sneak out of the laboratory in peace. In regards of that, he was becoming more productive when reclused. And at the end of the long hours of work, he slipped back to his quarters to find his 'mate' waiting for him.

To his immense relief, Crew didn't demanded anything out of him after that night: no labels were attached, no afterthoughts. Just a quiet walk filled with little chats about how good the space was -- how long since the prisoner had seen it, a particular constellation they both saw and commented... soft voices, arms entertwined and their faces close, intimate. There was a change that had been palpable after that confession, and Zenith assumed that they were both comfortable in this shared stasis of things. 

Meanwhile, the prisoner had taken a liking to relaxing into his arms: looking for his comfort pleased Zenith to an extent -- what was less pleasing is that, his mischievous look for comfort, he decided that the perfect time was when Zenith had sat himself at his desk to work. While the other wasn't a champion weight and could easily curl in his arms (his head was very good for a document holding too...), he was... always, _always_ moving. 

A clawed foot there, an hand sliding over his arm as he rested in peace... and as minutes ticked by, he grew bolder. Usually, this routine ended with a long-winded kiss and papers falling out of Zenith's hands, bothered and with Crew's coat lowered uncerimoniously over his shoulders, exposing scars and the tender skin of his neck. Lips were nipped and bruised, claws grasped hips and anything they could reach -- but there was never anything accomplished for finality, the smaller Irken smirking and making up some sort of excuse to slip away of his grasp. And while he readjusted himself, Zenith could see the flush over his face, and feel himself slowly go mad from this torture. There was something genuinely sadistic about Crew's doing, yet it felt inviting, his lower nethers pulsing and his mood completely scrambled by this all. 

Crew was confusing, no doubts about that -- but what about _his_ own needs? Zenith was beginning to grow restless, unable to unstuck himself from a sedentary position in their new... relationship? Companionship? Something had shifted, but aside from them both being bolder and more open with their affections... there wasn't much change into the picture, physically, yet the mental part changed with slowly-built trust bubbling up during relaxed moments. Daily, Zenith walked back to his quarters, lowered himself to greet Crew with a gentle kiss, the latter trotted behind him in his office and spent the rest of the day chatting away laying in the single mattress bed the small room sported, hands moving frantically as he tried to reconnect the dots of his life. The nights were spent on the elevated, closed dock together admiring space -- and it was mostly the scientist admiring the fleckles of it reflecting on the other's face. No sleep or little of it for both of them, who had their own, combined ways to pass the time.

When Crew mentioned his memories being fuzzy, sometimes, it was Zenith's idea to put them down on paper -- accidentally, at first. He discovered with wonder that Crew tended to ramble, his hands snapping in the air as he curled on the rather large pillow and get lost with words, somehow making him more at ease the more he felt free to spill. And Zenith could multitask quite easily, lending an ear as he completed his paperwork... or so he thought.

Crew's voice was too distracting: he paused, mumbled, raised his pitch -- made stuttering noises, and soon the taller irken found himself, in more than one occasion, having scribbled down what his companion was saying instead of the usual fill-in blanks. Crew also didn't liked to be stopped, and closed up in an horrified silence at the slightest sound made to interrupt him. It wasn't normal ramble alright -- and the idea was born a night of particular movement thanks to another planet to conquer, and he felt the other getting restless and grumpy. He was himself, if he had to be truthful -- night was their preferred time for them both to get out and breathe, and the Armada was too loud outside their door. 

''You can talk, and I will try to write it down, so you can keep the memories organized. Does that sound good?''

Crew was skeptical at first -- kept rambling, never interrupted, and Zenith's hand moved on the paper at an alarming speed and never once missing a beat. He included dots from pauses, the other's stuttering ''uh'', ''eeerrr'', and ''um'' with methodical precision -- if it was doable, he would have included the hand gestures too, but for now all he could do was tie the loose ends of Crew's memories together in scripts of white, scribbled pages. And seeing genuine gratitude in his gaze after he handed the package to them was just an added bonus.

A morning with a rare, unique day off in his office, Crew stopped his playing with one of the eyeless drones and went quiet for a while. When he got the symbolic gesture of an inesistent eyebrow raised at, he went quiet for some more, claws prickling at the drone's edges.

''Hey, um... you know my greatest crime? The one I am famous for? The whole, uh... 'murder an entire wing of a laboratory worth of irkens' thing?''

''Mmm,'' came the non-committal grunt in reply. Without an energetic drink, Zenith wasn't much of a talker -- and the episode didn't thrilled him the slightest. Had he not taken a day off, these tranquil days wouldn't have happened, and the thought wasn't comforting.

''Yeah... I don't remember a single minute of it.''

... Now, that woke him up. His head snapped to look at him, and found orange globes staring back with uneasyness.

''None of it? Are you sure?''

''Yeah. None. Zero. Nada. I have read about it, been told about it, but... I don't remember shit. Can't even remember the laboratories I did it in, the faces or... nothing.''

Meanwhile the other was talking, an opening cracked in a square form by the wall over his desk, and quietly settled down a mug of steaming dark liquid near his paperwork. Zenith smirked: since Crew crushed one of his drones, the intelligent system had fallen quiet and obedient, which was better than dismantling it like the threat he made. It also automatically got the temperature for his coffee right from that time on, which let a good mood seep in him.

Meanwhile, Crew stopped talking and eyed the mug with animosity. ''Your breath turns horrible when you drink that shit.''

''This is called 'coffee', and it helps stimulate the release of our vital fluids from our PAKs,'' came the sustained reply, a gentle blow flowing past his lips before he took a sip. It was dark and tasted nice, and he shot an obvious look at the other, who made a face and quickly exited the room in a bolt. 

''Fuck you and your tent,'' the other spat on the way out, making Zenith remember that, for privacy, he found a colored, small semi-transparent curtain to hang around the bed area. It seemed to relax the prisoner and give the bedtime an eerie, relaxing atmosphere. It was also reason for bickers, Crew preferring it open to not have his vision blur and the scientist wanting it closed in case of unsolicited visitors. The same phrase spoken now was repeated several times during this all.

''Whatever you say, dear.''

The other spluttered a few meters ahead and he chuckled, settling the mug down and flicking an oloboard into existence from the desk to continue working in peace.

 

\---

 

The day slithered by unbothered. After having finished his beverage, he settled in his chair to do more work for some hours -- venturing out to find Crew asleep in a bundle of blankets, akin to a cocoon, barely visible from behind the still curtain. Chuckling, he was going to go back to his work station when a soft, almost inaudible knock interrupted the peaceful silence.

Crew stirred slighty. Another sharper knock broke the atmosphere. Zenith felt his blood run colder than it usually was.

He had to answer the door. He didn't knew who was outside, and could have risked someone breaking in by force if he refused to allow them in.

Taking a deep, deep sigh, Zenith stepped closer to the doors and allowed them to disclose --

\-- meeting a small, scrawny Irken that barely reached his chest. With big, cerulean eyes, his antennae twitched nervously as he peered up at the scientist shyily. His hand still hung halfway between the door and the air, and was quickly placed back on his side.

''H... hello.''

''Hello,'' Zenith replied, now a bit annoyed at the interruption. Fresh-out-of-the-Academy smeeties didn't came knocking on random doors only to back out, so something must have been important. ''What is it? Did something happened?''

The small Irken peered around the room, then tried to affix his eyes on Zenith himself -- failing miserably, and dedicing that the hem of his cape was far more interesting to study rather than the narrowed violet eyes a few feet up.

''I-It's... a--an important matter that m--must be discussed p--privately, sir. D--do you have a place where...?''

''My office,'' he replied, curiosity palpable. If anything major happened, he would have been called immediately -- right to Spork and Miyuki's chambers, if necessary. So the request was strange, but he still moved an hand to point the way and proceeded the younger Irken into his private, solitary quarter. Before entering, he threw a glance at the curtain and found the bundle of blankets unmoved and tranquil, sighing in relief.

He had a bad feeling about this.

When the door closed, the small Irken seemed to have found an hint of courage: this time, he bravely stood in front of him, locked eyes with him and opened his mouth.

''Is Crew here?''

He was right, as usual.

He felt tiepid blood rush to his timpans, his head starting to pulse in rhytm with his heart speeding up: if he had some sort of control, he could turn and play it off cool -- but the surprise roared in his brain and prompted him to turn in a snap of his head, antennae flying behind his back as his upper lip reveales incisors to growl at the one who took a step behind -- shaking in complete fear and regret.

''W--wait! I--I can explain --''

Zenith's chest rumbled with another, deep growl and a show of his mouthful of danger, cornering the Irken on the closed door. ''If you speak,'' he threatened, voice low and trembling. ''If you speak of this with anyone, I will...''

The other shook violently, clawed hands up as a gesture of peace. ''I--I promise, I--I just... I saw you two... On the...''

''On the cockpit,'' Zenith finished for him, eyes narrowing the smaller one to the wall: they had been spied on. Their private moments were now tinted with the knowledge of someone in the shadows, and this poisoned him with a swirl of violence pleading to be acted upon. Something dark and boiling settled in his stomach, that begged him to strangle the Irken in front of him. Hard. Painfully, and witnessing every spasming breath leave the smaller body with a need that he could barely suppress.

But it was a time for calmness, because the other was obviously terrified and babbling against the metal of the door and desperately trying to shield himself with his own arms. 

''Why?'' He asked, trying to control the tremor in his voice. The other balked at it like he was struck.

''I--I was just... I was just pa-pa-passing by o--one night and I saw... the outline of his antennas, I--I remembered them from a l--long time ago, at the Academy...''

So this was an Elite...? Impressive how desperate the Armada could get, really. He saw smeeties taller and more fit than the one who approached him with his terrible, scalding secret. But he had to admit that he didn't lacked much courage.

''So,'' Zenith snarled. ''What will it be? Did you came here to personally flaunt yourself before you get an audience with the Tallests?''

''NO!'' The other finally screamed, making him flinch back and almost project his lower back into the desk with a sharp inhale. He simply glared, wary and attentive.

''N-no... I mean it. I s--saw you two on the cockpit, and-- and I thought that he was your mate! And t--that I could have trusted you...''

Now, this was _rich_. He cocked the idea of a brow at the other, panting with congested fists on his sides.

''I--I've always wanted to help him! I--I'm sure that he's innocent, and... and my name is Tabec, you can look me up in the Invaders registers and s--see for yourself! I'm not lying, I just --''

Another breath. At this point, Zenith stepped forward and placed an hand on the other's shoulders to stop him, expression molding into something less threatening.

''I do believe you -- however, you startled me. You seem honest, but Crew is... my secret. _My_ mate.''

The display of trust seemed to relax the other Irken slighty: his eyes stopped looking like gigantig eggs and started to sparkle at the clarification, his voice becoming more excited and an hand-drawn, old map appeared from under his uniform to show to the other. It described the Armada's corridors and rooms perfectly, to Zenith's disbelief.

Tabec's plan was simple: sneak Crew out with an Invader uniform, onto his ship, and out in space. The rest was to be figured out once they got on the traveling, standard Invader ship formation to be shipped off their respective planets -- and the scientist couldn't help but sneak a glance at the other's face.

Filled with hope and optimism, it was a nice sight in the Armada climate. But Zenith couldn't help but to quietly interrogate him about the fallouts of this plan: what if they got caught? What if Crew was easily recognizable, despite his confidence for the lack of photos? What to do if they got caught before they could embark? What was the escape route, then? But Tabec simply bounced back that it was a good plan, and that it was completely imperative for it to be working! He was refusing to listen, high on altruism and a plan he probably spent months working on.

A fallimentary one, that was.

At this point, after having scanned the map for the last time, Zenith made an important decision. Feeling the end of this visit approaching, and his desk being close, he snuck something in his pocket rather easily, and approached the other again, too focused on his map and his hero complex to see him.

''I will discuss this with him,'' Zenith reassured him, voice gentle. ''I will let him see through your plan, and let him decide accordingly. But for now -- you should leave, rest and make no word of this with a single soul, Tabec.''

With Zenith staring at him this warmly, for sure the younger Irken would have felt realized. Important, even! He had a plan, and was more than determined to carry it out with his help. He was getting his friend out, no matter what.

''T--thank you! I promise... I won't disappoint you, sir!''

''You have already succeeded in doing so, believe me.''

The scientist's expression shifted into something else, iciness washing over his usually warm eyes, and the hand hoisted on his shoulder suddendly moved at alarming speed to sneak in his coat pocket, and then towards his --

Without as much as a wrinkle in his expression, Zenith dug sharp, opened scissors into the younger's neck: to the side, where he knew there was a pulsating, vital vein ready to burst. The first hit didn't quite broke all the way into the skin, and he was forced to draw back and repeat the action with more force: this time, he felt the satisfacting stridor of blade hitting bone, and let the other drop to the ground, examining his blood-splotched sleeve and hand. 

''I suppose that this should have been expected, considering how much blood we have in our body. It doesn't make this any less disgusting than it needed to be... and Earth weapons are surprisingly sharp, and do their job nicely.''

He admired his handiwork, leaning over the spluttering Irken. His hands were clutched over his throat, trying to cover the mangled hole in it and keep what was left of his thrachea together. Pointless, considering that in his messy act he managed to shred most of it apart. The only slight trouble was how much blood was rhytmically spilling onto the floor of his office, the whirring of the others old-school PAK fretting in trying to heal the dying Irken.

All this potential wasted. It was always such a waste of resources when the containers started to fizzle in order to keep the host alive.

For the first time in years of his excuse for a job made to torture others, he was enjoying someone agonizing at his feet. Enjoying -- as in, watching them with interest. He observed the wide eyes, the purple waves of blood expanding on the floor and the way his body gaped and tensed in spasms and wouldn't stop kicking and fumbling around. Sighing, Zenith slid out of place the rolling chair, setting it backwards and sitting on it with a fluid motion, body leaning forward to the backrest where his crossed arms rested. 

''I don't know if you were moved by naivety or a more idiotic motive,'' he mused out, watching the other's struggle. ''But you made an enormous mistake in coming here.''

A pause. Another sigh.

''I mean it. What were you hoping to accomplish?'' He asked, resigned to the other giving him incoherent answers, whimpered chokes that bothered his antennae a bit. 

''Your plan was filled with holes, and go-lucky chances of luck that may as well not happen at the moment you needed them. And if it failed...? Crew would have been brought back into the cells... and receive a fate worse than death.''

He frowned, lost in thoughts. Into the soundproofed office there were only croacks of death.

''You understand why I couldn't allow you to do that. Your death was planned the moment you set out the idea of that foolish plan of yours. I recognize it might be tasteless... but you did really brought this upon yourself.''

He scrutinized the extented, shaky hand that asked for his help. The blood coating it was of a shimmering dark violet, reflecting the light like amethysts, and Zenith never thought that spilling blood could have made him feel so vindicated. So... _calm_.

''I'd say that I was rather merciful, considering the end that would have befallen you if the Empire had caught you.''

He outright smiled, sympathetical, down at his dying kin. 

''Plus... Crew will be safe with me. I am one of the royal scientists, with private quarters, with safer escape routes... With you, he certantly would have...''

... He didn't wanted to think about Crew's fate, had the Irken foolishly tugged him along. It wrung him so deeply he had to stifle a grimace. 

''I will keep him safe... he is my mate, after all. I choose him. He choose me. And you can't do anything in your state to fight it, less take him away from me with your silly, smeetie plans.''

A deep sigh. More croacks, fleble ones. They made his antennas stifle, so a shiny, heavy boot was pressed to his side to turn him face up, where he could only gurgle. From worse to... a little better, he imagined. 

''... I think that I fell really hard, and I don't know how to get out of this. No -- I don't want to get out of this. I have never felt those emotions before, and they're very... bittersweet. You probably wouldn't understand, young as you are, but one day you'll find someone who makes you feel this way. And you'll figure it out, I suppose.''

Silence was the only reply he got.

''... Or not.''

He rambled, as usual, and was so engrossed in it that the Irken beneath him stopped moving. He laid motionless and pale as a sheet on the ground, with the PAK desperately trying to bring him back to life -- with no avail. Zenith grimaced and sighed, a fluid motion moving him out of the chair, careful to avoid the growing pool of blood on the floor.

''I should stop talking with corpses,'' he mused to himself, frowning slighty. ''But the dead are very good listeners. They can't talk, after all.''

 

\----

 

He was lucky that the rooms were soundproofed for optimal work, and that Crew had fallen into a deeper sleep than he imagined: in a couple of hours, he had ample time to clean the floor from the sticky substance with the help of a drone, settle the body in a mixture of chemicals that softened most of it, leaving a good margin for a quick dispatch. With less than rigid bones already mellowed out, a methodical work of whirring saw did the trick of separating the body parts into two comfortable, disposable dark bags to be carried out the morning after. As in for the PAK... he had always wanted to get his hands on something like this, for his analysis. It might help the research proceed faster with one less victim, this way.

He waited for the inevitable rush of regret and deep discomfort he always felt after witnessing the tortures. He had been a bystander, if anything, and now he had perpetrated in one for an entirely different motive. It should have felt horrible, blood staining his hands forevermore.

Surprisingly, nothing came. Just satisfaction and relaxation for a job well done.

Crew was safe. And with him. That was all that mattered.

This line of thinking, and the scent of blood permeating his nostrils, allowed him to finally gather enough willpower to grasp at Crew's wrist in the middle of a makeout session just an hour later, pulling him flush against his body and sucking on his tongue for a change. It drew a startled but pleased moan out of the other's throat and made his hips buck up, startling Zenith in return with a gasp against Crew's thin lips.

When both drew back, they both looked astonished. And flustered, until the scientist spoke.

''You've been doing this to me all week,'' he accused him, his wrist still caught in his hand and between slender fingers. ''You're driving me crazy, I swear.''

Caught, the other chuckled and breathed on his cheek, purring low in his throat. ''Have I? I've been quietly asking for your permission, but you always draw back... if I drive you mad, then finish what I start.''

The sudden kiss could have caught Crew by surprise, but Zenith was ready. He felt himself stir and press against his mate, who in return hooked his legs under his to avoid losing balance.

''Oh, you wanna do it on the chair?'' He purred, malice glittering in his eyes. He slowly dragged a claw down his neck, prompting an explosive blush from Zenith that he seemed to relish in. ''Very kinky. Maybe I understimated you...''

Quickly reached by razor-sharp teeth brushing against his skin, his taunt ends up in a soft groan.

He nips, and keeps nipping down from the soft line of Crew's jawbone to the incredibly tender skin of his neck. Despite the scars hardening it into something akin to leather -- the unscarred part was soft to the touch, sharp teeth grazing over it easily, pointed tongue darting to taste him. Claws dug into his naked sides as the other made little gasps of pleasure at the contact, starved and willing to concede himself completely. He was trembling despite the touches, and he strokes his sides to relax him; it seemed to work for a small while, before it started again.

When Zenith managed to pry himself away from his neck, the lab coat that the other was sporting fell down, exposing his shoulders. Broad and levigated, chest naked without an hint of shame, Crew's eyes were hungry and predatory, claws grasping at the shirt and almost tearing it. He was close to anyway.

''Bite here,'' he exhaled, tilting his head to expose the tendon between shoulder and jawline. With warmth rushing to his lower nethers, Zenith didn't dared to hesitate and first teasingly nipped, gauzing the reaction -- then sunk sharp teeth into the point, drawing a startled, dazed moan out of the smaller Irken uncontrollably grinding their hips and making the old, poor chair creak with fatigue.

''O--oh _Tallests_ \--''

Zenith's upper lip twitched, digging his teeth a little deeper as a punishment in for naming someone so shamefully out of context -- not in his office, and certaintly not when they engaging in that sort of activity. He heard the other let out a low, keening groan in his throat and he could feel blood seep into his mouth, so he slowly released the broken skin and got careful not to cause anymore, lasting damage. But he couldn't help but lap at the dark green blood trickling down his chin, and admire the round, fractaled bite he left on the other with something akin to pride. It was to keep his mate grounded... it didn't meant that he couldn't have enjoyed it.

Crew was very vocal. He _loved_ that. 

He had little to no control to prevent the other from ripping off his shirt -- in the very sense of the world, violet strands of cloth getting split apart by sharp claws as they traced along his chest, barely visible pectorals and down to his stomach -- exploring, while Crew's breath steadied slowly and his hips gave off lazy, slow rolls sending sparks of pleasure running up and down his spine. He was sheathed and hard already, and Crew was just being a tease at this point. Plus, the material of his pants was awful on exposed skin.

''I am going to bite you again if you keep...'' Another sharp roll. He intook an equally sharper breath and rolled back, pleased to see Crew almost bouncing on his lap and moan out a soft sound that stifled deep in his antennae. 

''Yeah, actually -- actually, keep biting me. I fucking love it.''

_Masochist_ , the scientist thought, parting the coat with swift hands and exposing the other's member. Pointed, slick with transparent material, and divided by three rings of flesh in relevance, throbbing with need. And being the curious irken Zenith was, he gave another experimental roll of his hips and found out that his pants were going to be completely ruined anyway -- why not indulge the other? Panting and scraping claws down his chest, Crew was a sight to behold that he wasn't sure the chair could handle. He had strong, snappy hips that had caused the poor thing to creak in less than reassuring noises, and it wasn't a safe bet that this could have held them both.

''If you make me break the chair...'' Zenith exhaled, quite breathless, hungry kisses and nips getting equally distributed over his neck and collarbone as the other interrupted him with a purr.

'' -- If we do, you're gonna fuck me on the floor. I'm not letting you go, Zen.''

...Did he always had to be so _vulgar_? He glowered at him, and then felt gravity propel them quickly outside of the office, with the whole chair -- he didn't had time to yelp, victim of the events and still with an handful of Crew's skin under his fingers and their coats flying as Zenith recognizes the small room rapidly disappearing, switching with the main room -- and the bed just close to them, with Crew gingerly snickering around him.

Oh, this little minx...

Time passes in fractions of ripped clothes. Whatever prevision of softness one of them had in mind is quickly replaced with liquid heat pooling in their stomachs, Zenith's trousers getting sliced into thin strands of cloth to expose his erect member and waist and the coat Crew is sporting is shredded to reveal his long legs and arms, completely wrapped around him. They both want to be gentler, take it slower -- but the two of them are too pent up from inactivity, and animalistic desire is taking over them with tremendous ease.

This is why Crew doesn't protest when Zenith sinks his teeth into him over and over -- there's dark green blood seeping down his chest, leaving stained fingerprints over his shoulders, arms, chest and back -- and why Zenith can only gasp in tightly coiled pleasure when sharp claws drag themselves down his back and curl in the skin, colorful blood mixing together as they try to assert dominance over the other.

It's a lost battle for the smaller Irken, since he even helps the other sink into him with relative ease thanks to the natural lube. He has never heard Zenith groan like that, with a deep, husky voice that makes his antennas shudder and his back arch against his chest. All he can do is sink his mouth into the taller one, play with his lips and tongue as his claws work a number on his back and skin slaps at every thrust, the bed offering soft comfort for the burning, numb scratches they cause eachother.

When Zenith begins to thrust faster, it's Crew's turn to moan -- very vocally, in such a lewd way that they both silently thank the walls for being soundproofed. One of them for the second time in a day. 

He's almost being engulfed by the other, arched tight as a springlock over him: it becomes a feverish dance with fluids mixing together, the need to get air only followed when it becomes necessary and ends with Zenith giving in to a particulary sharp series of thrusts and to finish off inside the other, who in return gives him one of the softest, most satisfacted whispers of his name and an handful of fluid dripping down his stomach in return.

They trade incredulous looks, still tangled and flushed as pale and dark skin can be. Zenith is the first one to break it, cheeks flaring bright violet and Crew chuckling and leaning in to kiss at them, completely mesmerized and exhausted. They look both tired, but fluids dry and get cold faster than one might think -- and this is where Crew discovers that Zenith has either an impressive physical strenght or a dangerous amount of willpower, because he's scooped him up in swift seconds. Crew's arms wrap quickly around his neck while both arms hold him face-level with his mate.

While the smaller glares at him, Zenith has the remarkable gall to remain dumbfolded in front of danger. They trade stares for a few moments before snickering like smeeties, both holds tightening as they book for the bathroom as fast as possible.

Fluids can turn chilly rather quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall were beginning to like zenith? boi i have bad news for yall
> 
> ALSO VALENTINES DAY SMUUUUT

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. Welp, this is being a wild ride. Those OCs are old as balls and rewriting their story as I go is just as fun as I have imagined. I hold those two dearly and will try to balance the story so it isn't just romance, but also an AU Invader Zim thing.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!


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